


Audience of One

by Mysanthropist



Category: RWBY
Genre: A++ Schnee Parenting, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Weiss Schnee Needs a Hug, Weiss Schnee-centric
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:26:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 33,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26239321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mysanthropist/pseuds/Mysanthropist
Summary: Someone once said that music is the silence between the notes. Lovely. Now if only Weiss knew how to change the stupid song.orFamily, it's complicated. And if anyone can figure it out, it's Weiss Schnee.(with a little help along the way)
Relationships: Blake Belladonna/Yang Xiao Long (background), Ruby Rose/Weiss Schnee, Weiss Schnee & (almost) Everyone, Weiss Schnee & Blake Belladonna, Weiss Schnee & Yang Xiao Long
Comments: 50
Kudos: 144





	1. Overture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Overture: The instrumental introduction to a musical piece; an offer or proposal

“I want to be a huntress,” Weiss announces in the opulent dining hall where Nicholas Schnee’s portrait stands guard, back during a time when luxuries such as family dinners still exist.

“Young lady, I can’t understand you when you mumble,” her father says from the head of the table without looking up from his meal. “Speak up if you want to be heard.”

Weiss fidgets, not keen on repeating herself, and her feet dangle from the too tall chair. Across the table, Winter nods. The distance between them spans too wide for any physical reassurance, but the gesture of support helps Weiss swallow the tremor in her throat.

“I want to be a huntress,” Weiss repeats and projects her voice louder. “I want to fight and help people. Like Grandfather.”

There is a scrape of silverware as her father sets down his spoon, and his gaze descends upon Weiss like a spotlight. Her mother inclines her head but says nothing. Weiss clutches at the napkin on her lap so tightly it might tear. Beside her, Whitley plays absently with his food, content to ignore them all.

“Weiss, you’re just a child,” her father says with a shake of his head. “You don’t know what you want.”

Nevertheless, he hires a huntsman to come train her the following week: a stern, greying man who never once calls Weiss by her first name. Instead, he issues sharp commands at a breakneck tempo and inspects every step with an impassive expression. By the end of the session, Weiss hunches over with fatigue and exhilaration, but the ache imparts clarity and strength that sessions with Winter and her other tutors never did.

She is still young. She is still small, but Weiss is a Schnee. Like her Grandfather. Like Winter.

When her father enters the training room later that day, he strides straight to the instructor.

“Well?” he asks. "How is she?" 

“Not bad,” comes the gruff response. “With additional training, your daughter will be a fine fighter.”

For a moment, her father says nothing.

In the spaces between speech, silence is the passage where some things come to rest and others arise. Sometimes it waits. Sometimes it builds. And sometimes silence is the only thing keeping everything from breaking apart.

“Not bad? Not good enough.”

* * *

With Myrtenaster clutched in one hand, Weiss kneels on the floor of a training room at Beacon and watches a summoning glyph flicker but never form. She concentrates on the memories of the Beowolfs, the Nevermores, all the Grimm she defeated, letting the past victories fuel her desire. For an instant she pictures her father and the look on his face when she returns home with the full power of the Schnee semblance.

The fragments of the summoning glyph spin ever faster. Heat surges up her spine, then chills as the air conditioning blows against the sweat slick against her forehead and shirt. White creeps into the edge of her vision. The air grows heavier. Her arms tremble as the pressure builds to an intensity, raw and suffocating, like dust in the infinitesimal moment before it fractures.

The glyph dissipates.

Weiss drops to one knee. Her breath comes in shallow gasps, drowned out by the dizziness in her skull. The rest of her — the part not hollowed out and still capable of exhaustion — aches. She remains frozen on the spot until air returns to her lungs, and the ringing in her ears reduces to a dull buzz.

Finally, Weiss picks herself back up and leaves.

* * *

“How’d it go?” Yang asks when Weiss arrives at breakfast with her face scrubbed clean from grime and sweat.

In lieu of a response, Weiss drops into a dignified slump at her usual seat beside Ruby.

“That good, huh?”

“Sorry you couldn’t figure it out,” Blake says from Yang’s side across the table.

“Thanks,” Weiss says without affect.

A warm hand settles on her arm. Weiss tries to offer a smile back and ignores the way her skin tingles where Ruby’s hand rests. No need for her to worry Ruby any further about a lingering side effect of her morning session.

“Winter said it had to do with defeating your enemies, right? Not a lot of bad guy busting since the end of last year,” Ruby says, sounding almost disappointed at the lack of near-death experiences in their second year. “Maybe we can ask Professor Ozpin for an extra special mission so you can go kill more Grimm.”

“Killing Grimm? I’m down for that,” Yang says with a mutual fist pump. “I’m always ready to punch something.”

They devolve into an excited gibberish about missions and Grimm that Weiss mostly tunes out. She learned early on that tuning out completely was out of the question when Ruby and Yang started brainstorming. Someone needs to stop the absurd ideas before they progress into midnight excursions and 3am explosions ( _a teeny fire_ , Ruby insists) in their dorm. Blake, unfortunately, had been compromised.

“Guys,” Blake interjects. She places a hand on Yang’s arm to calm the frenzied motion and nods at Weiss. “Let’s let Weiss figure out what she wants to do, okay?”

“Sorry, babe,” Yang says, looking as close to guilty as Yang can get.

The term of endearment draws the barest of blushes from Blake. Weiss almost rolls her eyes at the display, but anything beats the awkward way Blake and Yang skirted around each other at the school year’s start, fresh off break together at Patch.

Ruby nudges her and mouths, _babe,_ wide and exaggerated. Fortunately, for the sake of the cafeteria table’s integrity, Yang doesn’t notice with her attention now back on Blake. Weiss laughs with a hand against her mouth, and Ruby beams back.

On their way out of the cafeteria, Ruby offers her another smile, this one smaller but no less bright.

“Hey, you’ll figure it out, and Team RWBY will be with you all the way.”

Weiss smiles and glances back at Yang and Blake stopped close together near the doorway of the cafeteria with their hands intertwined. She turns back to Ruby just as Yang leans in.

“I’m not sure how that’s going to work if the other half of Team RWBY can’t even make it out of the dining hall,” Weiss says and gestures back toward said pair.

Ruby follows the movement, and her entire face scrunches.

“Yech, forget about them,” she says. “ _I’ll_ be with you all the way.”

* * *

“All the way” doesn’t include the library, where Weiss spends the evening hunched over textbooks about semblances. She already consumed the entire catalogue of relevant books, but another, more careful reading could turn up information she missed the first and second (and third) times. Or so she tells herself.

The textbook teems with stories of people who discovered their semblances late, never discovered them at all, or discovered them under the most dire of circumstances. Weiss scribbles down a few more notes about semblances that took strenuous measures to unlock: one man exposed himself to hundreds of wavelengths of sound not audible to the human ear until he found the exact one which triggered his semblance, a woman meditated under frigid waterfalls, another man consumed hot peppers because his semblance activated in response to the heat of the spice. Truly awful.

Yet, any of those would be preferable to her futile, directionless attempts.

“Miracles Under Pressure: A History of Semblances?” a voice reads.

Weiss flinches reflexively as Jaune slides into the seat across from her.

“Sorry,” he says. “I can, uh, leave.”

“It’s fine.” Weiss schools her face into a neutral expression. “It wasn’t you. I didn’t expect the company.”

“Good. That’s good.” Jaune fidgets in his seat, and for a horrifying moment Weiss thinks he might try and ask her out.

Since Jaune stopped pursuing her, Weiss tries her best to remain cordial and forget about the unfortunate attempts, but it doesn’t stop the creeping dread that he might try again one day. True reassurance would likely only come if Jaune stopped being absurdly dense and noticed Pyrrha’s obvious infatuation. Why it exists, Weiss can only wonder, but she can’t impugn Pyrrha for one lapse in judgment.

“So, semblances?” Jaune asks instead and gestures at the textbook. “What’s that about? Trouble with your glyphs?”

“I’m not experiencing trouble,” Weiss snaps. Jaune jumps. “My semblance merely needs…refining.”

“At least you have your semblance.” He rubs the back of his head. “Some of us have nothing to refine.”

The frustration blares through Jaune’s voice with the subtlety of a horn. Weiss nods in what she hopes resembles sympathy.

“Pyrrha’s been helping you train, hasn’t she? There’s no way you won’t be able to unlock your semblance with her help,” she tries.

Jaune looks even more disheartened. “She's tried. Nora and Ren have been doing everything they can to help, too. It sucks, knowing that my team needs to waste their time training me.”

“I’m sure they don’t think you’re a burden,” Weiss says.

“That’s what they say, but I mean, _come on_. I come from this line of great warriors, and I can’t even unlock my semblance. It’s pathetic.” Jaune leans forward into his palm. “I’m supposed to be their leader, but sometimes it feels like I’m just failing the rest of my team and everyone else.”

“That’s understandable,” Weiss murmurs.

Jaune jerks as if stabbed. Weiss recognizes his expression from their last sparring match when she drove Myrtenaster straight through his armor. For training.

“Not the failure part. Or the part about being pathetic,” Weiss amends. “I meant that your frustration is understandable. It’s unfortunate you haven’t discovered your semblance so you can be the best leader and teammate possible.”

“Yeah.” Jaune cracks a grin. “Guess we can’t all be lucky enough to have family semblances.”

“Right. Lucky.”

Jaune continues, “It must be nice knowing what you’re capable of. It’s like you get a map to your final destination while the rest of us might spend our entire lives with no clue where we’re headed.”

Weiss presses a hand to her temple and takes a deep breath to tamp down her annoyance. He doesn’t understand. She understands all too well.

“A map alone can’t take you where you need to go, especially if you don’t know how to navigate with one.”

Jaune stares in confusion. “Do they not teach you how to read maps in Atlas?”

“We have state-of-the-art technological capabilities that render all other forms of navigation meaningless,” Weiss informs him.

“Got it, no maps,” Jaune mumbles. He reaches for the back of his neck again.

Weiss makes a deliberate show of reaching for her pen.

Jaune fumbles for the strap of his bag. “Well, um, I’ll see you at the match tomorrow. Let me know if you learn anything interesting about semblances?”

“Sure.”

Jaune offers Weiss a panicked wave and then disappears faster than he appeared. Weiss returns to her textbook. The emerging migraine turns the words to mush, but she picks up her pen anyway and writes.

* * *

By the time Weiss returns to the dorm, the lights are off and her teammates are already in bed. Navigating by the shattered moonlight spilling through the window, she deposits her books on her desk as quietly as possible. Not quietly enough.

“Weiss?” someone rasps. Weiss jumps, and her pulse leaps along with her. Ruby’s silver eyes squint down from the upper bunk, glinting like stars in the darkness. “It’s super late. Everything okay?”

The migraine throbs. Her stomach twists from a rushed dinner. Limbs ache from the morning training, and her body wants nothing more than to collapse into the comfort of her bed for a lifetime.

No, everything is not okay.

“I’m okay,” Weiss says.

Ruby doesn’t move.

“Everything is fine,” Weiss says, a touch softer. “We have a big day tomorrow. Go back to sleep.”

After a brief hesitation, Ruby murmurs a groggy assent and disappears back over the bunk. The ropes creak. A breath escapes, and with a final swish of fabric, the room goes silent save for Weiss’ heartbeat: ticking away like a metronome keeping time to a nocturne of quiet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be a canon-compliant one-shot, but I decided to try something new.
> 
> Thanks for giving it your time. Kudos/comments/etc... are all appreciated!


	2. Tango

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tango: a Latin-American dance for couples; to mingle or interact with a lack of straightforwardness

The school year ends with a barrage of written tests, practical exams, and ranked sparring matches. Beacon students favor the latter by far, and even Weiss can’t compare the thrill of a good essay to the excitement of the final team match of the semester. Normally, the fanfare waits until at least her first cup of coffee.

“We’re going to crush you,” Nora jeers from JNPR’s table. 

“Like you ‘crushed us’ last time? I remember my fists doing most of the crushing: of your face,” Yang taunts back.

Ruby cheers and imitates a punch.

“Come on now, there’s no need for this,” Pyrrha says, and her smile turns deadly sweet. “Team JNPR will annihilate all that stands in our way.”

She claps Jaune on the back, and he sputters with a wary glance.

“One of these days, they’re going to break something,” Weiss says, watching Yang and Nora engage in an impromptu arm wrestling match with Pyrrha acting as referee. Ren offers Weiss a solemn nod across the table when their eyes meet.

“Technically, we already did that,” Blake reminds her. “You helped.”

Ruby whoops her approval when Yang wins the match and grins even wider after she sees Weiss’ disapproval. She waves.

Weiss hides her smile behind a sip. “That was self defense.”

* * *

The combination of caffeine and adrenaline kicks in after they assemble on the makeshift arena in the amphitheater. JNPR gathers in a small circle on one end of the stage. Opposite them, Weiss spins through each of Myrtenaster’s dust chambers while her teammates complete checks of their own.

Ruby bounces into her vision with Crescent Rose clasped in her hands. “Ready?”

“Of course I’m ready.” Weiss flips her ponytail over one shoulder. “Are you?” 

“Of course,” Ruby mimics with a wild toss of hair that sends red-tipped hair into her eyes. 

With a roll of her eyes, Weiss reaches over and brushes back the bangs; she can’t allow Ruby into a match with her sight obscured. Ruby fidgets, and her face flushes with excitement for the fight.

“I wouldn’t bother with that,” Yang says with a wide, knowing smile. “We all know her hair’s gonna get messed up again real soon.”

To prove her point, she ruffles Ruby’s hair, inciting a squawk of indignation.

“Are both teams ready?” Professor Goodwitch calls from the center of the platform before Ruby can retaliate. 

“Ready!” Jaune yells.

Weiss looks to Ruby and nods. Blake and Yang follow with affirmations of their own, and Ruby offers a thumbs up before she leads them towards the center of the platform.

A telltale medley of activating weapons resounds around the stage. The audience in the rafters grows louder, waiting with none of the sober dignity of Weiss’ childhood recitals. Tension falls away from her shoulders. Stage-fright, she learned at an early age, stems from inadequate readiness, and Weiss is always prepared to perform. The rest of the amphitheater fades: the high-vaulted ceiling, the thump of impatient feet, the bright white lights.

All that remains is the charge in the air and the flutter of red fabric as Pyrrha surges with soundless speed.

Yang meets her mid-stage, propelled by the staccato of Ember Celica’s fire. Ruby rockets forward on a whistle of air, and Crescent Rose crashes into Magnhild with a piercing percussion intermingled with the jingle of Nora’s crazed cackle. From behind, Ren lets loose an opening salvo of bullets, but Blake bounds over them through an arc of apparitions.

Weiss glides passed on a path of glyphs and sends a stream of flames at Jaune, who ducks and rolls out of the way: straight into Myrtenaster’s oncoming slash. Metal clangs as Jaune braces his blade against her blow. He finds footing and forces Weiss back with a thrust; she parries. They alternate a sequence of strikes and blocks. Weiss steps Jaune towards the edge of the stage with each exchange. Cylinders rotate. A glyph opens, and Jaune buckles against the spray of ice. Weiss advances again with a Myrtenaster raised, only to feel her rapier loosen in her grasp as if being summoned.

Weiss flips back; Akoúo̱ slices the space vacated by her body before the shield snaps back to Pyrrha, then flies forward again before Weiss can ready a shield, and the force batters her aura even as it endures. 

“Fuck,” Yang pants, sliding up to Weiss as Pyrrha helps Jaune back up. 

Fuck, indeed. “Need a boost?” 

“Hit me with it.” 

Dust activates, and for a suspended second the air burns gold when Yang ignites, her hair haloed by the light of the time dilation glyph. She bursts forward; Pyrrha sprints; they collide in a blur of bronze and bluster. 

Through the heat, Weiss finds Jaune and strikes again, accelerating into an pulsing pattern of parries and stabs. Jaune thrusts forward with his shield, but Weiss springs back, pivots, and plunges Myrtenaster into his exposed legs. He staggers, but his aura holds, and Jaune charges. Weiss leaps sideways but instead of finding empty air, her body collides with Jaune’s shield, thrown with a choppy force that knocks Myrtenaster out of her grasp and sends Weiss staggering. 

Jaune lunges, sword swinging with both hands, but before the blade breaches Weiss’ aura, an accented gunshot rings out, and a bullet blasts Jaune back off the stage. 

Weiss flips over and spots Ruby’s roguish grin across the arena from behind Crescent Rose’s compact form. Behind her, Ren manages several shots in Ruby’s direction before Blake grapples his gun with Gambol Shroud’s ribbon and redirects the remaining fire to the ground. But the bullets never reach Ruby, exploding with a shining shower of sparks into Nora, barreling forward at full speed with hammer in hand. Electricity sizzles as she leaps with a crescendoing shout, Magnhild soaring along with her. 

"Ruby!" Weiss shouts in warning, conjuring a barrier behind her. It's not enough. 

The hammer plummets, shatters Weiss’ glyph, and smashes straight into Ruby. Surprise bleeds through Ruby’s face, aura fracturing in a shimmer of crimson. Crescent Rose clatters to the ground. 

Her body crumples.

The air around the arena thickens into a fog; sound disappears in a crush of static; the auditorium lights beam too bright above Ruby’s prone figure. A roar from the rafters craters to the stage. 

Weiss runs. 

Chambers change; fire flares from Myrtenaster into Nora, pushing her back, but Ren is there, shooting in her stead. The first two shots strike Weiss before she can prepare another shield. Her aura wanes. She rotates to another cylinder of dust and flicks her wrist; the black gravity glyph guides Blake’s body into Ren, wrenching StormFlower from his grasp. Weiss readies for another when a sharp pain sears through her shoulder, and Miló tears into the last of her aura. She topples to the cold auditorium floor with a gasp.

The ground shakes with Pyrrha’s footsteps as she bounds away to help Nora fend off the force of Blake and Yang. Weiss fights to focus her attention on the rest of the match, but her vision swarms with the red of Pyrrha’s spinning sash and Ruby’s cloak, motionless beneath her body.

She barely notices when Professor Goodwitch declares the end of the match and announces JNPR’s victory over a bellow of hollers and hoops.

“Ruby!” Yang yells, concern cutting through commotion. She slides towards Ruby knees first and cradles her sister’s face in her lap. Blake approaches slower. She starts towards Weiss with concern, but Weiss gestures at Ruby and Yang and staggers to her knees.

Red floods her vision alongside an outstretched hand.

Weiss allows herself to be helped up, and she offers Pyrrha a tight smile. “Congratulations on a well-deserved victory.”

“Thank you. It was a good match,” Pyrrha says with a smile of her own. “I’m always impressed by your ability to wield dust so effectively. You certainly didn’t make it an easy win.”

It takes the remainder of Weiss’ strength not to flinch as the sincerity cuts deeper than her earlier blow.

* * *

Professor Goodwitch dismisses the class with explicit instructions for Ruby to not exert herself upon waking. Back in the dorm, Yang settles her unconscious body on Weiss’ bed and shucks off Ruby’s boots with practiced ease. Weiss moves over to help adjust the pillow, but she winces when she catches the molten bruises around Ruby’s collar.

Yang glances sideways with a look of concern. “Your shoulder okay? You took a pretty nasty hit from Pyrrha after she got passed me.” 

“It was nothing,” Weiss replies, shaking out of her stupor.

She backs away from her bed with a sudden strong desire to sit. Yang nudges her shoulder as she passes, and Weiss hisses at the flare of pain. 

“Nothing my ass,” Yang says, not quite smug.

“It will be nothing once my aura mends so long as nobody _intentionally_ aggravates me,” Weiss says through gritted teeth. “What about you? Pyrrha hit you, too.”

“Eh, I can take a hit.”

“And I can’t?” 

Yang smirks. Weiss decides she doesn’t want to hear the response and moves away before Yang can open her mouth. Sitting down at her desk chair grants more relief than Weiss cares to admit. Yang steps away from Ruby with a satisfied look, then turns and flops face first next to Blake on her bed with a groan. 

“Guess JNPR’s going to take the number one spot this year.”

Weiss purses her lips in agreement. 

“We’ve stuck to the same strategy for a while. It’s enough to get us wins, but not consistently,” Blake notes. Her hand settles on Yang’s shoulder. “Guess it wasn’t enough this time.”

“We still might have won without Nora’s semblance. Ren and Jaune were eliminated. Pyrrha was…” Weiss fumbles. “Pyrrha.” 

“I doubt they’ll hold back on Nora in the future,” Blake says. “We need something better to counter.”

Yang tilts half her face up from the mattress. “You got a plan, Belladonna?” 

Blake shrugs and smiles down at her. “I was hoping you did.” 

“Nah, I’m just here to punch things and look hot,” Yang replies with a lazy smile.

“You are good at those things.” 

Before Weiss can begin to reassess her life choices, someone else rescues her with a groan, and Weiss turns to watch Ruby stir on her bed. 

“Ruby!” Yang shouts from across the room. “How ya feeling?” 

“Like I got hit by a Nevermore and a pack of Beowolves,” Ruby replies, rubbing at her eyes. “At the same time.” 

She stretches and cranes her neck around, looking dazed but unharmed. Ruby’s eyes sharpen as they flit around the room, first pausing at Yang and Blake and then landing on Weiss. 

“Did we win?”

The tightness in Weiss’ lungs unspools by a thread. “No.” 

Ruby pouts. “Aww, man. What happened?”

“Nora rendered you unconscious after Ren activated her semblance with those bullets _you_ modified.”

“Oh. Neat!” 

“It’d be neater if you helped your own team win, sis,” Yang says.

Ruby smiles sheepishly. “Sorry.”

“We were going over strategies for next time,” Blake offers.

Ruby perks up at the mention of planning.

“Is that what we were doing?” Weiss scoffs. “I didn’t realize flirting was part of our new repertoire.” 

Blake makes a sound halfway between a cough and a choke. Yang snorts. Ruby tilts her head and presses a thoughtful hand to her chin — never a good sign. Weiss braces for the worst. 

“Do you think that would work?” Ruby asks. 

“I think it’s worth a shot! I call dibs on Pyrrha.” Yang bolts up and finger guns at Weiss. “Vomit boy is all yours.” 

Weiss scowls.

Blake arches an eyebrow at Yang. “You sound very excited about this strategy.”

Yang winks, unbothered. “It’s Pyrrha. She’s awesome. Plus, the girl deserves the love since Jaune can’t take a hint. Or a thousand.”

“I do feel bad for her,” Blake agrees and looks at Ruby with an odd smile. “Don’t you?”

“I think Pyrrha is happy to be friends,” Ruby replies, her face scrunched in concentration.

“Pyrrha might be better served by being upfront with her feelings,” Weiss disagrees. "It would end the uncertainty on her part.”

“You know something is a good idea when Weiss and I agree,” Yang says, leaning forward on her knees. “ _Pyrrha_ needs to woman up and tell _Jaune_ how she feels.” 

“Maybe _Pyrrha_ doesn’t want _Jaune_ to feel pressured,” Ruby says, still looking far too serious for Weiss’ liking. “Blake, between Ren and Nora, who do you have the best chemistry with? Ren seems like the obvious choice, but you are dating Yang.” 

Weiss tips forward into the back of her chair and presses her forehead against the solid wood. 

“Ruby, we’re taking you to the infirmary. _Clearly_ , you sustained some kind of head trauma when Nora hit you.” 

* * *

All but the most driven students fall victim to the lull of languid Saturdays mornings.

Weiss wishes she could count herself among them. Instead, she treks across the deserted campus and squints against the morning glare. Sunrise crests over the horizon, breaking on the back of dawn shepherding night into day. Dew douses the soil and infuses the air with a damp grassy stench that nips Weiss awake. 

The jabber of bird chirps transitions into the faint whizz of weapons when she enters the training halls. Weiss finds an empty room without trouble and shuts the door behind her. The muffled sounds disappear.

Without wasting time, Weiss draws Myrtenaster and begins her warm up. A familiar rhythm builds. Years of repetition flow through her: feet light, wrist loose, weight centered, a firm touch of the weapon. Each movement follows the last without pause, and the routine tempts her thoughts back to the fight of the previous day: Yang ablaze, Blake agile, Ruby impossibly still. 

Weiss falters on the next step.

* * *

Ruby’s slumbering breaths fill the dorm when Weiss returns to drop off her things hours later. It’s music to her ears. Nothing short of sleep or unconsciousness slowed Ruby down enough for her to recover.

After leaving a message to remind Ruby not to leave the room, Weiss makes her way to the cafeteria and settles at a table by herself. The din of the hall is an indistinct murmur against her thoughts. She swirls her coffee, letting the bitter aroma mingle with her exhaustion. A faint nausea in her gut quells any desire to eat. 

“Yoo-hoo!” someone calls. 

Bright pink assaults her vision, and Weiss tenses. The last time she saw that color, it gleefully smashed a hammer into Ruby. A tray, loaded with buttery scrambled eggs and syrupy pancakes, clatters across the table.

“Good morning, Ren,” Weiss says. “Nora.”

“Good morning,” Ren greets. He slides into the seat beside Nora. “Are you here alone?”

“Blake and Yang are off doing something, presumably together,” Weiss says. A touch cooler, she adds, “Ruby is still recovering in bed.” 

Nora twists her hands together. “How is she?”

Weiss softens at the concern. “It’s Ruby, she’ll be fine after bed rest and ludicrous amounts of sugar.” 

“Whew, that’s a relief.” 

Ren nods his agreement.

“What about you? Where are Pyrrha and Jaune?” Weiss asks.

“I think Pyrrha’s off training. Jaune’s still sleeping.” Nora waves her hand. “Doesn’t matter though because I’ve got Ren.”

“That was apparent during the fight yesterday,” Weiss says, trying not to think of her own failure in the same regard. 

“We need to thank Ruby for the bullets,” Ren says. He chuckles. “I can’t imagine this is what she had in mind when she gifted them to me.” 

“Trust me, Ruby was thrilled when she found out.” Weiss shakes her head and a smile tugs at her corner of her lips despite her exasperation. “She has an unfortunate penchant for attracting danger to herself.”

“I know what you mean,” Ren says pointedly. 

Nora giggles. “Well, that’s why I’ve got you around.” She wiggles her eyebrows at Weiss. “And that’s why Ruby’s got you, right? To kill all her buzzes.”

“It’s my responsibility as her partner to keep her alive until graduation.”

“Until graduation?” Ren asks. “Are you not planning on staying with Team RWBY afterwards?”

“Statistically, very few teams stay together after graduation,” Weiss says, chasing the sour taste in her mouth with the refreshing bitterness of coffee. She knows what she needs to do after graduation, where RWBY fits in is a different matter. 

“That’s depressing,” Nora says, her expression dropping before pepping up again. “Good thing I’m not a statistic, otherwise I’d probably already be dead! And if Ren and I were a statistic, we probably wouldn’t have stuck after all this time…but we did! So HA!” She waggles her fingers in front of Ren. “Take that, statistics!” 

Ren catches her fingers and brings them away from his face. “Math, the true enemy of every Huntsman and Huntress,” he says, not letting go of her hand. 

Nora smiles in a way that’s almost delicate before turning back to Weiss with a wicked expression. “Looks like Team RWBY’s going to need to deal with being the number two statistic forever because there’s no stopping us.” 

“That’s not how statistics work,” Weiss says, grateful for the change in subject. ”Your team improvement this year doesn’t mean you’ll remain on top.” 

Nora gasps and swoons into Ren. “Improvement? Was that a compliment from the Ice Queen herself?” 

“It was a factual statement.”

“We appreciate it,” Ren says, steadying Nora. 

“Any more _factual statements_ and we might think you actually like us or something,” Nora says, propping her face up on her hands. 

“Or something,” Weiss says.

Her scroll buzzes with a notification from Ruby, and Weiss immediately thumbs open the message. 

**[Ruby]:** got ur note!

 **[Ruby]:** promise not to leave 

**[Ruby]:** im hungry :(

 **[Weiss]:** Don’t move. 

**[Weiss]:** At the cafeteria now. I’ll bring you food.

 **[Weiss]:** Don’t. Move. 

**[Ruby]:** :) 

Weiss bids a hasty farewell to Ren and Nora. She discards her uneaten food, grabs a bowl of strawberries and, after consideration, a doughnut. Usually, Weiss tries to enforce a healthier breakfast option, but Ruby’s injuries justify one morning with only pure sugar for sustenance. It’s the least she can do.

* * *

“Weiss!” Ruby greets from her bed when Weiss enters the room. 

“I brought breakfast,” Weiss says. There’s no movement, and Weiss looks up to find Ruby peering down with a playful smile. Her heart thuds with a painful reminder of when she last saw that expression on Ruby’s face. 

“Does this mean I’m allowed to move now?” Ruby asks. 

“I’m throwing this away if you don’t come get it in the next 30 seconds.” 

Ruby clamors down and drops in front of Weiss with a light thump. The skin around her collar looks healed and the resplendent smile she offers Weiss when she accepts the proffered food, similarly unmarred. 

“You’re the best.” 

Weiss strains a smile.

Ruby plops in her chair and drops a few strawberries into her mouth. “What’ve you been up to?” she asks around a mouthful of fruit. 

Weiss frowns and holds out a napkin. “Training.” 

Ruby has the decency to look embarrassed, and she swallows before speaking next, “Your summoning again?”

“Not today,” Weiss says, moving away from Ruby to search for her notes. “I was working on everything else.” 

“You’re already so good at everything else though!” 

With her face turned away from Ruby, Weiss grimaces. “I’m only good at things because I work hard to excel at them. I’m not…” Winter. Pyrrha. _You_. “…naturally gifted.” 

“I know you work hard,” Ruby says, her voice softening. “You’re always up early and training and studying and…not sleeping.” Even gentler, she adds, “You could take a break.” 

“I can take a break once I master my summoning and everything else.”

“Yeah, but what if—” Ruby cuts off.

The nausea claws back into Weiss’ throat. She turns around to see Ruby with a doughnut halfway to her face, trying and failing horribly to appear nonchalant. 

“If?” Weiss asks.

Ruby stuffs the remaining pastry into her mouth. “Mphm.” 

Weiss narrows her eyes. “Ruby.” 

Ruby swallows and tries to avert her gaze.

“Ruby,” Weiss repeats, her voice low. “If what?” 

“You’re always pushing yourself so hard because you think you need to meet these standards, but what if—” Ruby stutters, hands twisting, her next words strangled into a whisper. “What if you never reach them? Are you never going to let yourself take a break? Are you…never going to let yourself be happy?”

It doesn’t hurt: that’s the worst part. It’s not painful or cutting, not something her aura can mend, just a numbness seeping from her core to her fingers to her face to her mind. Her life is immaculately scripted out: perfect her skills, graduate from Beacon, restore the Schnee family name. There is no place for improvisations or deviations or extensions; for simple things like happy or sad; for failure. 

She is Weiss Schnee, and there is no place for _not good enough._

“The purpose of establishing standards isn’t to reach them,” Weiss says very carefully. “Standards exist to indicate when I’m falling short, and I won’t be satisfied until I fulfill them.” 

“I know you can do it.” Ruby jumps up from her chair with a furious nod. “And I’ll do whatever I can to help!” 

She steps forward with her hand outstretched, looking so sure and sympathetic and _sincere,_ and Weiss hates it. She hates that Ruby always tries so hard to help because one day her efforts won’t be enough. But she’ll try anyway. Ruby will keep trying, keeping throwing herself in the way of a world waiting to disappoint, and all Weiss can do is watch it shatter her brilliance into dust.

“Ruby, I know you want to be a hero and solve everyone’s problems,” Weiss snaps, her voice pitching into someone she thought she left behind.

Ruby stills. “I’m not—” 

“But this isn’t some battle strategy you can plan: it’s my semblance, my family’s semblance. You can’t make it better, so stop pretending like you can. Stop acting like you can swoop in and save everything. Stop being so naïve.” 

Silence chokes the room. 

“I…” Ruby pulls back, blinking rapidly and looking at everything but Weiss. “…I should go.” 

She stumbles and reaches blindly for her cloak, eyes glistening but not with joy. 

“Don’t. Move," Weiss hears herself say. “You’re supposed to be _resting_.” 

Her body feels detached from itself as it moves. Weiss doesn’t know if the door slams when she leaves or if it closes with a gentle click. She doesn’t know how many bodies she brushes by through her blurred vision. She doesn’t know where she’s going. 

What Weiss knows is this: the real problem, the one thing she can’t protect Ruby from — it’s her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Weiss can't summon, but she sure can project.


	3. Andante

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Andante: a musical composition or movement in a moderately slow tempo; from Italian, going or "to go"

The city of Vales bustles with vibrancy fit for a beautiful day: the park and main plaza peal with families at play; side streets hustle with weekend spirits; the pier ripples with ocean tang and boisterous laughter. 

Heels stomping against dusty cobblestone, Weiss ignores it all. The buzz of city life shifts into the grumble of construction as she approaches her destination. At the end of the street, Weiss steps out into a wide open plaza.

Fresh hand-laid cobble paving spans from the renovated businesses to her left to the opposite side of the square where a street exits towards the crimson brushes of Forever Fall. Tasteful shrubs and dogwood trees stand between in careful arrangement.

Everything pales against the view towering straight ahead.

Now in its last stages of construction, the facility stretches above the city with glossy windows reinforced with the latest holographic technology. Stylish white trim traces sleek panels from the roof down to the main entrance. At the base of the building, mounted atop pedestals on either side of the double doors, twin snowflakes radiate out in sunbursts. Straight above, the company name glitters in bold white letters: Schnee Dust Company. Below that, in smaller type: Vale Branch.

After the destruction caused by Torchwick and the White Fang, her father _generously_ donated to help with repairs. In return, the city granted permission for a new SDC development. Weiss doesn’t doubt her father’s self-interested motives, but she can’t help the tug of pride at her family’s name building something new.

To build requires dedication: a plan with follow-through and execution. The outcome, whether a building or a weapon or art, manifests the beauty and ingenuity (or lack thereof) of its creators. Great people build. Lesser ones destroy. The weakest of all lack the ability for either. 

That Ruby could suggest Weiss might never master her summoning renders the possibility of her failure all the more stark. But worse is the possibility that Ruby, hopeful and patient and kind, would continue in her faith only to discover that Weiss is beyond her help; that Weiss is the problem that can’t be solved; that Weiss isn’t the partner she deserves. 

Light footsteps and a familiar voice interrupt her thoughts. 

“I thought I would find you here.” 

“Glad to know I’m so predictable,” Weiss responds.

She glances over her shoulder to watch Blake approach, taking care to step around the crass _FUCK THE SDC_ graffitied over the ground that Weiss stepped over in her earlier haste. Blake stops beside her and squints up at the building. Sunlight swallows all but the line of her jaw.

“It made it easier to track you down,” Blake says, wind ruffling the bow in her hair.

Weiss pulls her jacket tighter against the breeze. “I wasn’t trying to hide.”

“Just run.”

“I’m not running away from anything.”

“I never said you were,” Blake says with a flat look. “Running _away,_ that is.” 

Weiss levels back a glare. “If you’re going to make vaguely accusatory statements, you might as well do it over tea.” 

* * *

The bell above the cafe’s door jingles when Weiss and Blake enter. Crisp outside air mixes with the soft aroma of fresh-baked pastries and brewed drinks. Weiss takes her seat at their usual booth against the window. Blake slides into the padded seat across from her and sets her green tea on the wooden table.

“What did Ruby tell you?” Weiss asks after a long drink.

“Not much,” Blake says. “She mentioned an argument, and that she’s worried you’re overworking yourself.” 

Weiss almost laughs. How predictable for Ruby to characterize Weiss blowing up at _her_ as an argument.

“Did she mention that I yelled at her?” 

“No.” Blake continues, “But the kicked puppy expression on her face did.” 

Weiss groans and drops her head into her palm. She can picture the exact expression from the tremble of Ruby’s chin to her frown to the pinch of her eyes as she tries not to cry. 

“I expect Yang’s prepared to kill me the moment I step back onto campus.”

“Don’t be overdramatic. If Yang wanted to kill you, she would already be here doing it herself.” 

“Fantastic. I’ll remain here where there are plenty of eyewitnesses in case.” 

There’s an audible sigh. “Yang is worried. We all are. Do you remember the last time one of us overworked herself to prove something?”

Weiss lifts her face to scowl. “This is entirely different. You tried to take down a dangerous criminal scheme. All I’m doing is taking responsibility for my family name, so I can prove that the company is better than my father and his machinations.”

Blake stares back, unimpressed. “Is it?”

“My Grandfather started the SDC to help Remnant. I know things aren’t perfect. I know the company makes mistakes, hurts people, but it also provides dust, supplies energy, builds.” Weiss gestures outside at the high-rise visible on the horizon. “It still does good.”

“I thought the same thing about the White Fang. For a long time, it served as a force for good: leading the way forward, inspiring hope, listening to unheard voices,” Blake says. “It was a safe place people turned when they had nowhere else.”

Weiss grips her cup tighter, remembering those long, sleepless nights when those voices were heard — loud and angry. Amid the cafe’s indistinct chatter, a machine grinds raw coffee beans into grounds. The whir stirs other recollections of a churning chainsaw, the taste of cold steel, and the scorn of a stranger hungering to kill. She swallows the memories with a gulp.

“They also tried to blow up the city and destroy a safe place for thousands of innocent people.”

“I know, and I’m not trying to justify that decision. They’re not the same group I once believed in, not the one who stood for justice and peace,” Blake says, the sharpness in her voice softening. “And I should have realized it sooner.”

Recognizing the concession, Weiss bites back a retort. “It’s not your fault you wanted to believe in the White Fang.”

“No, but it is my fault I didn’t listen when people who cared tried to warn me.”

Weiss grimaces. “Well, I didn’t exactly go about it in a reasonable manner.”

Blake laughs. “No, you definitely didn’t, but I wasn’t referring to you.” 

“Then who?”

“My parents.”

Weiss feels her face slacken in surprise. She tries to recall any prior conversations about Blake’s parents and finds none. That alone says enough. 

Blake smiles with a twist of her mouth. “Not what you were expecting?” 

“You’ve never mentioned your parents before,” Weiss says. 

“This coming from the same person who didn’t tell her teammates she had a younger brother for over a year.” Blake’s smile relaxes. “I still remember Yang’s face when she found out you were a big sister, too.”

“It horrified her to learn we have so much in common,” Weiss says, and then shakes her head, slapping her palms down on her table. “Wait, don’t make this about me. I never mentioned anything because it’s common knowledge I have two siblings.” 

“It’s common knowledge that people have parents. At least two of them.” 

“You know what I mean,” Weiss snaps. “Why…”

“Why don’t I ever talk about them? Why am I going to Patch with Yang and Ruby instead of seeing them?” Blake suggests. “Why did I run?” 

Weiss nods, and the smile on Blake’s face fades. 

“My parents were early members of the White Fang. They knew better than anyone what good the White Fang could do, but they left after they saw the White Fang becoming dangerous. They thought I should leave, too,” Blake says. “I thought they didn’t understand, that they were giving up their responsibility to fight and change things for the better. So instead of leaving the White Fang, I left them.”

Blake leans back as she finishes. The grind from before stopped while they talked, replaced by the low whir of conversations too distant to understand. Steam drifts up between them in spirals.

“It sounds like they wanted what’s best for you,” Weiss says.

“They did, but I couldn’t hear it back then. Or maybe I didn’t want to.”

“Have you ever thought about going back?” 

“Thought about it? Yes. Actually considered it? No.” Blake looks at her cup, swirling her tea into a small whirlpool. “Leaving was always the easy part.”

“You never give yourself enough credit,” Weiss says, placing a hand on Blake’s arm. “You admitted you were wrong about the White Fang and stood up to them. That took courage.” 

“Maybe,” Blake says. “But it’s one thing to stand up to someone if they hurt you. It’s another to face the people you hurt.”

“You didn’t do it on purpose. You were trying to help them, even if you went about it in the wrong way.” 

“It doesn’t change the fact that I hurt them, and if I’d stayed with the White Fang any longer, it would have been even more people.” Blake’s eyes find Weiss with unflinching care. “People who didn’t deserve it.” 

“You were never responsible for the White Fang,” Weiss says. "Their mistakes don’t define you." 

“Neither do your father’s.”

Weiss retracts her hand, and it curls into a loose fist on the table.

“You know better than anyone than that’s not true. The first thing people notice about me is my last name. Sometimes it’s the only thing,” she says, thinking of bright lights and bone white masks. “I can’t change that, but I can make sure my father doesn’t define my family name forever.”

Blake presses her lips together as if to argue, but doesn’t speak.

Weiss continues, “Isn’t that the same reason you went after the White Fang — because you wanted to prove they were better? Can you honestly say you wouldn’t do it over again? That you would give up the White Fang, what it meant to you, without a fight?”

“I don’t know,” Blake admits, and then something passes through her taut expression. She leans forward and touches Weiss’ hand. “I do know that I’m sorry. For accusing you of being anything like your father.” 

Weiss startles at the feather-light apology. It’s not what she expected, but then again, neither is Blake.

“I’m sorry, too,” Weiss says, fist unfurling. “For judging you and anyone else for the White Fang’s worst actions.”

Blake’s mouth curves into a fleeting smile. “Can you imagine where we would be if our lives were a little different? Who we might have been?”

Late afternoon sunlight washes over the table, exposing nicks and imperfections scratched throughout the surface — tiny testaments to first dates, second chances, last regards; lives which once intersected, then parted; some forever; and others lost but for an instant until they find their way again.

Weiss smiles and raises her drink.

“I think we both would have arrived at the right place eventually,” she says and tips back her cup and finishes the last of who they never were together. 

* * *

When Weiss returns to Beacon, evening coats the sky with a smattering of stars. A band of students in patterned dresses and shiny shoes streak passed her into a departing airship, their responsibilities traded away with a costume change. Weiss walks in the opposite direction, back towards her room. A whiff of smoke hangs in the halls: either the traces of baking gone wrong or explosives done right. 

The door to her dorm opens before Weiss can reach for it, and Yang stares back in surprise. Her jaw hardens. Weiss steps back — one eye on the hallway, the other on Yang — and clutches the paper bag in her hand tighter. 

Yang takes one step forward and drops a hand on Weiss’ shoulder, palm resting where Pyrrha struck the previous day. The wound doesn’t hurt, already healed by aura, and neither does Yang’s light squeeze: it’s...comforting.

“Chill, I’m not mad,” Yang says, and her jaw eases into a crooked grin. “Glad I can still scare you, though.”

“I’m not intimidated,” Weiss huffs. She crosses her arms. “You seriously aren’t mad?” 

“When am I ever not serious?”

Weiss doesn’t dignify that with a response.

“ _Seriously_. I can tell you already feel bad. I’m not gonna make it worse.” Yang slips through the doorway with another pat on the shoulder. “And I know that bag of cookies isn’t for me; Ruby’s in the library. I’m meeting Blake in Vale. Try not to miss me too much!” 

Yang disappears around the corner with a jaunty wave. Weiss relaxes despite herself. Then she remembers her purpose for returning to the dorm, but it’s too late to call Yang back so she can avoid facing Ruby instead.

* * *

Nobody goes to the library on Saturday evenings; Weiss knows from personal experience. That makes it easy to spot the lone figure slumped over an empty table. The bright red cape never did Ruby any favors with stealth either.

As Weiss approaches, it becomes evident that Ruby fell asleep midway through reading, head propped up on her arms over an open book. Typical. Weiss skims over the part of the page unobscured by Ruby’s hair. They’re familiar words: the same meaningless paragraphs about semblances she spent the past few months pouring over. Her heart clenches with equal parts guilt and affection.

“Ruby, wake up,” Weiss says, with a gentle shake. 

Ruby tilts and blinks up, sleepy and unconcerned. “Hm?” 

“You fell asleep at the library.”

“Oh,” Ruby says, nods, and then flops forward again, nestling into the crook of her arms.

Well, she tried the nice approach. Weiss picks up the nearest textbook not being used as a pillow and lets it fall with a bang. Ruby jerks awake.

“Weiss!" There's a frantic flap of arms and Ruby tips backward, almost falling out of her chair. "I was trying to study.”

“I know,” Weiss says, steadying her. “Studying is the only thing that puts you to sleep.”

“I tried to pay attention, but it’s so boring. I wanted to...” Ruby freezes and her voice lowers. “…help.” 

Trying to ignore the fresh wave of shame, Weiss thrusts the bag in her hand forward. “These are for you.”

Ruby leans back, puzzling at the foreign object in her face until the confusion brightens into clarity.

“Weiss,” she laughs, “you don’t need to bring me food every time you want to apologize.”

Weiss flushes and snaps her hand back. “Do you want them or not? I’m sure Yang would appreciate these without the commentary.” 

“No!” Ruby lunges forward, and her amusement eases into something more sincere. “I accept your apology cookies.”

Weiss scoffs but offers the bag, and Ruby takes the gift with a delighted smile. As she inspects the contents with gusto, Weiss sits down near her, separated by the table corner. The air fills with the sweet smell of powdered sugar and the nervous tap of Ruby’s boots, an awkwardness reminiscent of the first few weeks of their partnership. At least back then, Weiss could disregard the tension. Now it deafens. 

“I’m sorry,” Weiss says. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you.” 

“It’s okay,” Ruby insists. “I know I’m not always the best with words. I wasn’t trying to say that I didn’t believe in you or that you can’t figure out everything on your own.” 

“Don’t apologize. You were being honest and trying to help. I responded poorly, and I shouldn’t take it out on you whenever I feel frustrated. It makes me like—” Weiss can’t finish the thought. 

Ruby sets down the bag, her enthusiasm settling, and shifts her chair closer.

“Your dad?” she asks quietly. 

Weiss shakes her head.

“The pride I get from my father. Lashing out because I’m upset...” Weiss squeezes her eyes shut. “…I inherited that from my mom.”

  


On Weiss’ tenth birthday, her parents gift her the argument of a lifetime: not the quiet jabs over dinner or the blunt, offhand remarks at parties. This is sharp and inescapable and loud. 

The shouts ricochet around her bedroom in bursts throughout the afternoon. From the safety of her bed, Weiss tucks her knees to her chest and her head to her knees and hums: old lullabies, classical melodies, ever so softly, the tune of happy birthday. It’s not enough. Everything is too loud, too heavy, too much, and she is so very small and so very scared. 

A yell pierces the walls, and with a final slam, the manor falls into blissful stillness. Weiss curls further into herself. She counts each waiting breath as the seconds slip into minutes into the irreconcilable. There is no reprise. There is no new beginning. There is no one coming. 

She exhales in relief. There is no one coming. Weiss slips off her bed and after a few shaky steps, tiptoes out into the dead of daylight. 

Sunlight cleaves through the windows, dragging long shadows across corridors in its wake. Weiss passes Winter’s empty room and Whitley’s motionless one, the dining hall which once held their lives together, the towering suits of armor and stoic portraits and art belying beauty. As Weiss nears her father's office, a crash from inside shatters through the fragile peace. A sliver of light escapes from the open doorway. Weiss ventures forward and peeks through the crack.

The normally tidy office is a picture of devastation. Upended books lie strewn across the floor, their pages soaked with muddy amber. There is a gash along the luxurious leather couch and a side table upturned; the remains of the frame that once stood atop it shimmer through the dark carpet weave. Dust floats in the air like ash. At the center of the wreckage, a bottle hangs from her mother’s fingertips as she sways with an erratic rhythm. 

Weiss trips over a fallen book as she creeps through the door, and the sound draws a glassy-eyed glare in her direction. Weiss pulls herself upright and clasps her hands together to stop the tremble.

“Is everything alright?” she asks.

Her mother laughs without humor and tilts bodily into a nearby bookcase.

“Darling,” she slurs, voice thick like tar. “Didn’t your father teach you not to ask stupid questions.” She gestures with a wide sweep of the bottle, and liquid sloshes around with reckless indifference. “Does everything look alright to you?” 

“No,” Weiss whispers to the ground. 

“Good. That already makes you smarter than fools who pretend otherwise. Fools who cling to fantasies. Cling to hope.” 

Purple splotches glitter against her mother’s pale wrist as she lifts the bottle to her mouth and drinks. 

“I clung,” she continues. “For you and your brother and sister. I tried; I stayed. And now your sister’s run off to join the military and you…”

Weiss shuffles forward. A gaze cuts over; she freezes. 

“Oh, Weiss. You want to be a huntress? Save people? Listen to me: there are no heroes in this world, only monsters and the martyrs who try to stop them. If you’re smart, you’ll be neither. And if not,” her mother says, the glass reflecting off her gaze, “you end up as both. Your grandfather built an empire and then destroyed it through his own blind faith. _He should have known better_ than to trust your father with something so precious.” 

Another drink. 

“He should have known.” 

(Then another.) 

Her mother sags into the torn couch with her head in her hands. Weiss kneels, reaches, and then pulls away when unfocused eyes turn on her. The hand that touches her face is cold and smooth. 

“You remind me of him. You’ve always been so…so caring. So gentle. So _naïve._ ” 

Her mother attempts another drink, but there is nothing left. The bottle falls, and the hand which held it clenches Weiss’ wrist in an iron grip. Weiss recoils. Her mother leans in, eyes glazed and desperate and blue.

“Promise me you’ll be better, darling. Promise me you won’t let yourself be hurt. Promise me you won’t let him win.” 

Weiss nods; the caustic stench etching each plea, like a little tiny scar in her memory.

“I—I promise.”

  


Weiss jolts when a hand settles atop hers, but it’s not a relic of her memories, only Ruby’s familiar touch: rough with calluses and comforting. 

“I’m sorry,” Ruby says, her eyebrows drawn together. “About your family. It always seems so…sad.” 

“Please, you of all people don’t need to feel sorry for me,” Weiss says without thinking, and then wishes she could shove the words back into her mouth when distress flickers through Ruby’s face, so quick Weiss almost misses it under the library’s dim light.

So much for apologizing.

“Forget about my family, Remnant knows the world could do with fewer people talking about them,” Weiss says, trying for levity. 

“You don’t talk about them very much,” Ruby notes, not smiling.

“Not because it’s all bad, there just isn’t much worth discussing. People act like we’re some grand political drama, but the reality is much less complicated.”

“It sounds kinda complicated.”

“Not particularly. There are a set of established routines and expectations and everyone follows along. We’re like a well-rehearsed…” Weiss touches the hand on hers, drawing Ruby’s downcast eyes, and smiles. “…battle maneuver.”

“I guess I can understand that,” Ruby says, inching towards a smile of her own. “Are you ready to go back?”

“I already booked my private ticket: first and only class.”

The joke does not land.

Ruby nods with an unnatural stiltedness. Her knee knocks against Weiss’ beneath the table with each bounce of her leg. Weiss resists the sudden urge to reach over and soothe the motion. 

“I have a plan,” Ruby declares, bringing up her other hand to sandwich Weiss’ between them. “Come stay at Patch like Blake. I mean, our house is kind of small…” Ruby falters, but presses on, “But we could make it work!”

Weiss allows herself a moment to dream: Zwei hobbling up to her on stubby legs, a city not frosted over by pomp and snow, movie nights with RWBY, training days with Ruby. 

“It would be nice,” Weiss confesses, and before Ruby can begin to hope, she adds, “But I can’t avoid my family because they’re difficult.” 

“It’s not avoiding,” Ruby says, leaning forward. “It’s focusing on good things instead.” 

“That sounds like postponing inevitable problems, and you know how I feel about procrastination.” 

“Every second spent procrastinating is a wasted opportunity for success,” Ruby recites in a monotonous drawl. 

“Precisely,” Weiss says, pleased despite the mocking. “I’m glad you remember.” 

“Of course I remember,” Ruby says, grinning back. “You only said it like a million times.”

“And whose fault is that for not heeding my advice the first time?” 

“I’m pretty sure it’s still yours.”

Weiss rolls her eyes. “Well, you’ll be free to ignore all my incredibly useful advice soon enough. I can’t lecture you all the way from Atlas.”

The cheerfulness in Ruby’s face vanishes. Her hands tighten, reminding Weiss of her own still clutched between them.

“…But you could try?” Ruby asks with a waver.

“Try?” Weiss replies with as much authority as she can muster. “If I commit to something, I’m going to do more than try.” 

“So you will?”

“You have my word.”

A smile sweeps across Ruby’s face, erasing all traces of uncertainty as if they never existed. And if Weiss lets it whisk away her problems, lets herself forget the world where they await, lets herself pretend for a little while longer…

Well, no one else needs to know. 


	4. Fugue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fugue: a musical form consisting of a theme or themes repeated successively in different voices; a dissociative state during which a person forgets and often wanders away from home

“—and this is my room!”

Ruby angles the scroll away from her face: first towards the dark red of her bedspread, then to wooden paneled walls and a cream colored curtain. The camera shifts again to Grimm figurines dotting a bookshelf; diagrams scattered over a desk; and a suitcase on the floor, halfway unpacked.

“You’ve been home for at least a few hours. Shouldn’t you finish unpacking?”

Ruby laughs. Weiss does not.

“…You weren’t serious about lecturing me over the phone, right?”

“A Schnee never breaks her promises,” Weiss informs her.

“Can’t you break this tiny one?” Ruby centers the scroll back on her pleading expression. “I promise I’ll finish later.”

Fortunately for Weiss, the glass screen between them renders Ruby’s doe-eyed pout ineffective.

“I know you, and if you don’t clean now, it’s never going to get done.”

Unfortunately for Weiss, her stern gaze also lacks the desired impact.

Ruby smiles without a modicum of remorse. “I guess you’ll have to call again later and remind me.”

“I’m hanging up,” Weiss says without moving.

“Wait!” The screen bobs. “Come on, Weiss. I didn’t call to talk about cleaning. I want to know how you’re doing! How’s your flight?”

Weiss rolls her eyes at Ruby’s obvious ploy to distract her but makes a show of looking around the empty cabin of her family’s private airship.

“It’s uninspiring.”

Ruby tilts her head. “Is that bad?”

“As far as flights go, no,” Weiss says, leaning back against her seat. “The less excitement, the better.”

“When do you think you’ll be back in Atlas?”

All too soon.

“Not for a few more hours, which means we still have time to discuss what you’re doing over break,” Weiss says. “Even if you won’t be cleaning, no partner of mine is going to squander away all her precious time.”

Ruby flops down on her bed with a groan.

\-----

The airship touches down in Atlas alongside the setting sun. In place of daylight, a spectacle of dust-powered beams and flashing displays flood the sky. The light disappears closer to the Schnee estate, dark except for the manor’s solitary glow.

“Welcome back, Miss Schnee,” Klein greets when Weiss steps through the doors.

The warmth of his smile seems to occupy the otherwise empty foyer and lessens the cold from outside, still pressing on her back.

Weiss smiles. “It’s good to see you. I trust you’ve been well?”

“As ever. And yourself?”

“I’ve been…busy.”

They cross the waxed marble tile together, Weiss transporting her suitcases with glyphs over Klein’s protests, and head up the stairs. As they walk, Klein informs her of the latest around Atlas: renovations to the heating grid, recent council elections, rumors about the military and this family or another. Weiss already knows — she follows news about Atlas even at Beacon — but Klein’s gentle tone is pleasant and familiar, so she listens along without interrupting.

“Is my father around?” Weiss ventures after they arrive at her room.

“He left for business a few days ago. No word yet on when he plans to return.”

If Klein hears her exhale of relief, he makes no mention of it, and opens the door so Weiss can enter.

All the furniture looks immaculately dusted, fresh white sheets coat the bed, and the floor glistens with a polished sheen. Weiss sets down her suitcase and shrugs off her jacket. As she unpacks her belongings, she reacquaints herself with the abundance of space, the lack of bobbles and blueprints and books unrelated to dust theory and history, the persistent chill.

Everything is exactly as Weiss remembers.

Finished with her task but not tired enough to sleep, Weiss reaches for her scroll. She hovers over Ruby’s contact information, then Blake’s, then Yang’s, and ends up on Winter’s.

The call goes to voicemail after a few moments.

_“Winter Schnee is unavailable. If the matter is urgent, please try contacting her military line. Otherwise, she will return your call as soon as possible. Thank you for your understanding. Goodbye.”_

\-----

“Good morning!” Whitley greets from the dining table when Weiss arrives for breakfast the next morning. “It’s been so long since we last spoke.”

A steaming cup of milky coffee rests in front of him along with a newspaper, crisp and untouched. Weiss sits down across from him where a cup of her own coffee awaits. The rest of the table is bare.

“Hello Whitley. It has been a while.”

“I believe 5 months since you last returned home. Not that I would know. I’ve been so busy I can hardly keep track of the days,” Whitley says with a flick of his wrist. “I trust your flight back went well. No complications?”

Weiss takes a careful sip of her coffee. “No, nothing unusual happened on my flight back.”

Between the near-death experiences and food fights and being launched into forests, the strangest thing to happen to her in recent memory is taking place right now: a cordial encounter with her brother. Weiss downs another, more generous sip to make sure she’s not dreaming.

“Good, good.” Whitley’s mouth turns up in a vague approximation of a smile. “I’m so glad to hear you’re doing well. I can’t wait to hear what you’ve been up to.”

\-----

“I did it! I unpacked,” Ruby brags, brandishing her scroll about her room.

She did, indeed, empty her suitcase. And if the sweater sleeve peaking out from under Ruby’s bed is any indication, Weiss knows how.

“I’m so proud of you.”

Ruby beams. The door opens behind her and then, “Hey, is that Weiss?” Yang’s face appears over Ruby’s shoulder, and she grins. “I was starting to miss the sound of your crabby voice. Did you miss us, too?”

“Blake, definitely. You, not at all.”

“Well, duh. Blake is awesome,” Yang says. She props her chin on Ruby’s shoulder. “I guess you can’t miss Ruby since you’re always on the phone. She — ow!” Yang yelps as Ruby accidentally elbows her in the face with a jerky movement.

“Sorry,” Ruby says hurriedly.

“Oh no, you’re not. Not yet.”

The screen shakes as Yang pulls Ruby into a headlock, then blurs into an indiscernible mass of limbs, hair and red. It steadies again with Blake’s face as she steps away from the chaos.

“I apologize for leaving you to deal with them on your own,” Weiss says.

Blake shrugs with a fondness in her eyes. “I knew what I was getting into.”

“I don’t see how that’s possible with those two, but I trust your judgement.”

Somewhere behind Blake, Ruby shrieks with laughter, followed by the distinct sound of something hitting the ground. Hard.

Weiss ignores the mayhem and continues, “How’s Patch?”

“Like I remembered: relaxed, friendly, warm. It reminds me of—”

Yang whoops, and Blake turns, the screen shifting along with her to Yang’s victorious figure, fist pumping the air with a broad smile. The corner of Blake’s mouth curls up.

“It feels like home.”

\----

“I heard you speaking to several people in your room last night,” Whitley remarks the next day when Weiss passes him in the hallway on her way to a training session.

Weiss stops and spins to face him, fingers against Myrtenaster’s hilt to halt the sway. “Were you listening outside my room?”

“I was merely passing by, and they were loud,” Whitley says, fiddling with his tie. “Is that the company you keep at Beacon?”

“They’re called friends, Whitley. I’m sure you wouldn’t know anything about that.”

Whitley glares, but the reaction comes a touch too slow. Weiss steps closer, her shoulders dropping.

“You really don’t know, do you?” she says.

“Of course I know.” The slump of his mouth elevates into haughty indifference. “I’ve read all about them, and I have better things to do than exchange petty gossip over slumber parties.”

“All those very important things you do when you aren’t busy ‘passing by’ my bedroom.”

Whitley coughs. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Right,” Weiss says. She taps Myrtenaster. “I’m on my way to an important training session. Maybe you can try explaining when I’m done.”

\----

“All I’m saying is your room could use a little more pizzazz.”

From her cushioned chair, Weiss observes the regal canopy bed and the hand-crafted oak bookcases and the portrait of an armored knight hanging in the corner.

“It’s classic,” she says.

“It looks like the inside of a magazine, not a place where people live,” Yang replies. “C’mon—”

Barking interrupts her next words. The scroll twists away to bright sunflowers, colorful photos hanging askew, and a fluffy mass of fur. Zwei jumps onto the vibrant green couch where he plops down on Yang’s sternum, head resting below her chin and the messy splay of golden hair.

“C’mon,” Yang continues, scratching his belly. “Why not spruce it up? I’ll even help you decorate. You know I have awesome style.”

Zwei's tongue lolls out happily.

Weiss takes a very, very deep breath. “I recall vetoing most of your ideas for the dance we planned first year.”

“After I threw out yours! You wanted _ice sculptures_. At a school dance.”

“Ice sculptures are suitable for all occasions. It’s not my fault our classmates wouldn’t appreciate them.” Zwei yips at the screen. “See, Zwei agrees with me.”

“He’s not agreeing with you.” Yang scratches Zwei behind the ears and his tail wiggles. “That was you telling Weiss she’s wrong, wasn’t it, Zwei?”

Zwei barks and licks Yang on the cheek.

Traitor.

But Weiss forgives him. Even the noblest of creatures succumb to a good bribe.

“Look, maybe the ice sculptures were a bad idea. I’m still not letting you decorate my room.”

\----

Receding flames adorn the training studio in an amber glow when Whitley enters and observes his surroundings with aggressive disinterest.

“Is this what you spend all your time doing at Beacon?”

Weiss follows through with Myrtenaster’s last jab. “No, I’m usually too busy partaking in slumber parties.”

“Ha.” Whitley watches her blade with a guarded expression, arms crossed over his chest. “It doesn’t seem any better than what you learned from Atlas tutors.”

“How would you even know?” Weiss retaliates. “Have you ever picked up a weapon in your life?”

“I would never need to,” he deflects with a tone that means yes. “It’s a waste of time, not to mention uncivilized. I can’t fathom why you and Winter do it.”

Weiss waves Myrtenaster, and a burst of fire crackles into a perfect snowflake in the air a few feet from Whitley. He stumbles back, mouth parted, the blaze alight in his wide eyes. Weiss smirks.

“Maybe you should try for yourself,” she says, lowering her rapier. “You might learn something new.”

Whitley brushes off nonexistent dirt from his vest. “Why bother? There are no Grimm in Atlas. Violence serves no purpose here.”

“If you insist.” Weiss secures Myrtenaster back in her belt loop. “There are threats outside of Atlas, you know. Dangers that might not stay away forever.”

“In that case, we have soldiers and our superior technology to protect us.” The stiffness in Whitley’s posture loosens with a piercing glint in his eyes. “What more could I possibly need?”

\---

An excessive stream of photos deluges her scroll, courtesy of Nora. Only occasional pictures of Jaune’s baby cousin, who is certifiably adorable, stops Weiss from blocking their group chat.

 **[Nora]:** can u guys believe jaune is related to this child

 **[Jaune]** : is this what i get for inviting you into my house??

 **[Ren]:** I believe it was your mother who invited us.

 **[Jaune]** : this is a mutiny

 **[Jaune]:** help

 **[Pyrrha]:** I’m sorry! Miss you all!

Pyrrha sends a photo of the sun rising over Mistral as the first rays of daylight glint off the distant sea.

 **[Nora]:** <3

 **[Weiss]:** That’s a beautiful photo.

 **[Ruby]:** pretty!!

The next hour passes in a flurry of pictures: Yang and Ruby with their arms around each other making goofy faces at the camera, Jaune and Ren in matching aprons, Blake and Yang tangled over each other on the couch with Ruby’s cheeky expression in the foreground.

Weiss lifts her scroll, then pauses; her room seems emptier than usual. Colder. She wanders to the window and snaps a picture of the snow descending outside, flecks of white almost lost amidst a grey city and indigo washed sky. Something cold tightens in her chest. Weiss stares at the photo, at the snow, at the horizon where ice caresses the sky — lovely and distant and pale.

There’s another pang, a hollowness, as she sends it off. As if it’s possible to miss something she didn’t even know.

\---

Weiss leaves her room before the rest of the manor wakes. It’s not quite day or night, a time caught in between. Without the usual low hum of activity, her footsteps fall in the unattended halls with the heaviness of a war drum.

The garden is mercifully silent.

Under the veil of sunrise, Weiss follows the beaten path which snakes from the manor to the honeysuckle-choked trellis. Drooping snowdrops line the way, a procession peaking through the mantle of snow below shadows of the looming spruce trees. A low moan of wind batters branches and shakes loose evergreen needles.

Twigs scrape against stone. Petals scatter. The manor door rattles.

Weiss freezes, and her stomach drops, panic blooming through her chest. Carefully, she turns.

No one is there.

There is nothing but the wind and a whiff of whiskey in the air, lingering in the garden like a ghost.

\---

The thick clouds above Ruby shroud her in a backdrop of grey. Weiss can make out the vague outline of a forest and a large grey shape — a rock or boulder of some sort — close behind. Ruby is barely visible but for the bright red cloth clinched around her shoulder.

“You should go back inside before you get drenched,” Weiss says.

“Nah, it’s been like that all day,” Ruby says with a nonchalant flap of her hand. “It gets like this all the time in Patch — super dark, lots of clouds, but it doesn’t end up raining. Dad can always tell. He calls it his ‘nature-al’ instinct.”

“That seems like a useful intuition to possess.”

“I think he recognizes patterns from all his experience as a Hunter but wants to sound all cool.”

“He seems like an intelligent man,” Weiss says with a smile.

Ruby makes a disgruntled noise. “Please don’t tell him that when you meet him.”

“When I meet him?”

“Well, duh,” Ruby says in a pitch perfect imitation of Yang. Weiss laughs. Ruby’s voice lowers. “Did you not want to meet him?”

“No, that’s not it,” Weiss says before Ruby gets the wrong idea.

She spent her childhood being introduced to the prominent parents of her peers. Those conversations all proceeded in the same way: a nod here, a smile there, a honeyed compliment to meld everything together. Somehow, the prospect of meeting her best friend’s father feels more complicated (and more important) than the simple task of regaling dignitaries.

“I’m not familiar with the…protocols involved in meeting a friend’s parent,” Weiss explains, preparing for Ruby to laugh.

Instead, Ruby tilts her head, looking thoughtful. “I don’t think there any rules. Yang and I already told Dad everything about the team, so he kinda knows what you’re like. But stories aren’t the same as the real deal.”

It’s meant to reassure, but Weiss cringes when she remembers, well, everything. This time, Ruby does laugh. Though her joy doesn’t diminish Weiss’ embarrassment, it heartens her enough that Weiss manages a small smile. The laughter fades and Ruby leans back, cloaked in the surrounding darkness.

“I tell my mom about you too,” she says, much softer. “All the good things.”

Ruby looks small, trapped in the corners of a fragile glass screen. Small and all too far away. The scroll is cold against Weiss’ palm. Her hand aches, remembering the way Ruby’s hand had settled over hers in the library all those weeks ago and wishing she could do the same.

But she can’t.

“I wish I could meet her,” Weiss says, clutching Ruby’s image a little tighter.

“Yeah,” Ruby agrees. “I do, too.”

\--

_“Winter Schnee is unavailable. If the matter is urgent, please try—”_

\--

“—punching it in the face! And then Blake finished it with Gambol Shroud. I call it: a Hit and Gun.”

“I still don’t understand how that differs from our normal fighting style: you punch something. Someone else shoots it. Or stabs it.”

“It sounds normal, but it looked awesome,” Ruby insists. It’s a regular call today, no video, but Weiss’ mind crafts an image of the emphatic hand gestures no doubt accompanying Ruby’s voice.

“I thought it was cool, too,” Blake’s voice supplies.

Weiss frowns. If even Blake agrees, she must be missing something significant. That same unpleasantness from before gnaws in her chest.

“I wish you had been there to see it,” Ruby continues. “Oh well, there’s always next time.”

Her tone is frank, not accusatory, but Weiss winces at the implication. She props her scroll up on her desk and lets the cheerful conversation on the other end of the scroll drown out noisy thoughts: of promises and responsibilities and horizons creeping ever closer.

“Weiss, you still there?” Yang asks after a while.

“I’m still here,” Weiss replies, looking back down at her scroll. “I was thinking.”

“Classic. Thought we lost you there for a sec.”

“You’re always thinking!” Ruby’s voice creases. “Is everything okay?”

“Fine,” Weiss says, grateful that none of them can see her expression. “What were you saying about our battle routine? That it’s time for a change?”

\--

For the first time since she returned home, Weiss spends an entire day without Whitley’s incessant company. The lack of interaction is unexpectedly unsettling.

“You seem quiet,” Weiss notes over dinner.

“Why, I’m surprised you even noticed,” Whitley says, looking up from his meal. He sighs. “If you must know, I’ve been reflecting on some things.”

“That sounds productive. Good for you.”

Weiss resumes eating, only for a cough to interrupt her thoughts. When she raises her eyes, Whitley looks away, raveling and unraveling the noodles around his fork without taking a bite.

“What have you been reflecting on?” Weiss asks slowly.

“All the insights you provided about your time away,” Whitley replies quickly. “It seems you really grew at Beacon. Changed.”

“And you’ve…” Stayed the same. Like everything else here.

“There’s no need flatter me,” Whitley says before Weiss can muster a response. “I know I’m still learning, but I can assure you I’m growing, too.”

“You know, Whitley, I sincerely hope that’s true.”

“Without a doubt.” He flashes a smile. “Nothing lasts forever.”

“I suppose,” Weiss replies.

The raised skin around her left eye tingles. Something from her memories hums in the back of her mind. Growing.

Advancing.

Or maybe it never truly left to begin with.

-

Weiss wakes to the clamor of footsteps thumping through the manor. Even through the walls, she can sense the frenzied energy in the halls. There is no light yet, but an ambience of disquiet seeps through the cracks between the doors. Weiss burrows back into her pillow, seeking what temporary respite she can salvage in sleep. Just for a little longer.

But dreams can’t silence reality or the potent fragrance of black coffee, heralding the inevitable:

Jacques Schnee is finally home.

* * *

Weiss moves through her morning routine in methodical motions, a different flow from that of her training warm-ups. Those built; this fortifies. It’s the difference between putting on armor and readying an attack.

There’s a knock at her door. “Miss Schnee?”

“Come in,” Weiss calls through the door.

Klein steps in with a knowing look about him. “Your father requested you for breakfast,” he says, then ducks his head, voice dropping. “Should I tell him you’re feeling unwell?”

“There’s no need for that,” Weiss says, brushing her ponytail to the side. “I’ve been expecting him.”

Klein nods. “I’ll let him know you’ll be down soon.”

“Thank you, Klein.”

The door shuts behind him.

Weiss smooths out her dress, trying to recall the last time she held a substantial conversation with her father. Nothing after she left for Beacon comes to mind. He hadn’t even been home for the entire duration of break after her first year (negotiating in Vale, she would later learn). It was too much to hope he would remain away this time as well.

It doesn’t matter. Weiss never relies on hope. She prepares.

Her scroll beeps, and Ruby’s contact picture smiles from the screen. On instinct, Weiss almost picks up before rejecting the call and firing off a quick message instead. There will be plenty of time to talk later.

For now, she has breakfast to take care of.

* * *

When Weiss enters the dining hall, her father isn’t there. Instead, Whitley straightens at his lone seat at the table. He slouches back after their eyes meet.

“Sorry to disappoint,” Weiss says as she sits down.

“You, a disappointment? Never.”

Whitley anchors his gaze back on the door, fingers drumming against the tablecloth in precise, orderly beats. Weiss might almost consider the rhythm soothing if she didn't know the reason behind it. 

When the door opens again, a lanky figure strolls in with a white suit perfectly pressed, hair slicked back, shoes polished coal black: a man dressed for breakfast with his children.

“Good morning, Father!” Whitley says, just shy of a shout.

He receives a nod in acknowledgement and then pale eyes turn on Weiss like stone. She can’t help the way her posture mimics Whitley’s and straightens, tension taut across her chest.

“Good morning,” Weiss says without looking away.

Unexpectedly, her father responds with the barest upturn of his mouth.

“It is, isn’t it?” he says, striding passed the gathering of empty chairs to take his seat at the far end of the table. “It’s been too long since we all last dined together.”

Not long enough.

“How was your trip?” Whitley asks.

“Good. Construction is proceeding as scheduled. We’re set to open soon as planned.”

“That’s excellent news.”

Weiss gazes into the depths of her coffee and prepares to tune out the rest of the conversation when —

“—agree, Weiss?”

She snaps up at the mention of her name. “Pardon?”

The disappointed click of her father’s tongue cuts across the room. “Did you forget your manners at Beacon? You should pay attention when people address you.”

“Sorry, I haven’t quite woken up yet,” Weiss replies. It’s not a lie. There’s a heaviness pressing on the back of her eyes, the remains of a sleep she never quite returned to.

“I imagine staying up all night _gossiping_ would leave little time for sleep.”

 _Gossiping._ The word drags a recollection through the last of her fatigue like ice. She whips her gaze across the table. Whitley doesn’t meet her eyes.

“As a matter of fact, the last person I spoke to last night was Whitley,” Weiss grinds out through her clenched teeth. She turns to her father. “You were asking me something else earlier?”

“I asked what you thought of the new headquarters in Vale,” her father says. “I trust you’ve been to the construction.”

Something about his still lofty expression sinks in her empty stomach.

“It’s an impressive building,” Weiss answers carefully.

“Yes, it seems all of our efforts paid off. It was a risky proposition, given all of Vale’s shortcomings: the poor infrastructure, lack of defenses, nonexistent leadership.”

Weiss bites down on her lip, schooling her expression. It was an argument they’d had before. She didn’t need to waste her breath on a battle she already won.

“If Vale is so unremarkable, why donate so much money and construct a new headquarters?” Whitley pipes up. “Atlas already has far superior resources.”

“You shouldn’t be so quick to judge based on appearances,” her father replies. “For all its failings, Vale possesses one thing which Atlas presently lacks.”

His eyes drill into her. The squeeze around her chest draws ever closer, but Weiss doesn’t look away.

“What?” Whitley asks, ever eager.

“Unrealized potential. Some entities, such as Atlas, grow into themselves given enough time. Others require more supervision. More intervention.”

Her father’s expression remains smoothed over with calm, but each word is sharp with unfiltered intent.

“There’s an abundance of resources _wasting_ away in Vale. I couldn’t let that stand. You understand, Whitley, that’s what the Schnee Dust Company does: we follow opportunity and ensure it isn’t being squandered. Even when it tries to hide.”

The air thins, but the chill in the room can’t temper the flush of heat down her neck.

“I’m not hiding from anything,” Weiss snaps.

She sucks in a breath, but it’s impossible to pull back the words or retreat behind pretenses. Some things, once gone, can never return. Her father leans forward with his elbows on the table, fingers tented, nonchalance hardening into a cool severity.

“Whitley, I’d like to speak with your sister. Alone.”

Whitley scrambles from his chair. His expression lacks the assured self-satisfaction Weiss expects. Something almost uncertain colors his face instead. But the waver disappears when Whitley meets Weiss’ glare, the corner of his mouth lifting into a half-smirk. The innocuous clap of the door shutting behind him reverberates through the hall.

“I understand you’ve been busy at home,” her father starts before the ringing can even settle.

“I’ve been training and studying,” Weiss says. He makes a dubious sound. “And keeping in touch with my team.”

“Yes, your team. I heard about them from Whitley. Although, I believe the term he used was ‘friends.’”

Her fingers curl into her dress. “Am I not allowed to have friends?”

“You’re allowed. I would even encourage it. Friends, allies, connections, they’re all essential to getting ahead,” he says with a flippant wave of his hand. “But you understand what matters the most, don’t you?”

Weiss understands. She understands all too well. “Family.”

“So you haven’t forgotten.”

“Everything I’m doing is for the family.”

He scoffs. “Is that why you’re in another kingdom shirking your responsibilities?”

“You agreed to let me attend Beacon,” Weiss reminds him. _After I beat your test_ , she doesn’t add.

“I agreed to let you study at a school,” her father replies. “Not play around and allow yourself to be distracted.”

“I’m not distracted.”

“Is that why you never call home? Your brother misses you dearly. When we spoke a few days ago, all he could talk about was your time away at school.”

Whitley missed her alright, missed sabotaging her. All the conversations and questions and civility. Weiss should have known better.

“No one tried to contact to me either,” she says.

Her father smiles, razor-thin. “And would you have been receptive if I tried to reach out to you? If your brother did?”

“I would have.” But even Weiss can’t believe the words as they leave her mouth.

Her father doesn’t either. “All your actions suggest otherwise. You know empty promises are meaningless.”

“They aren’t empty promises.”

(A small part of her doesn’t quite believe those words either.)

"If that’s the case, then here’s your opportunity it to prove yourself.” He leans forward with both elbows planted on the table. “Starting from today, I’m cutting off access to all your accounts.”

“I don’t need money,” Weiss says.

“You will if you plan on going anywhere, including Beacon. I’ll make sure of it. Nobody will transport you, not when they risk losing out on our booming company business. They understand the repercussions.”

Her jaw flexes against the retort threatening to escape. As much as Weiss hates to admit it, he’s right. Bribes work only when they surpass the alternative, and whatever she could offer paled compared to the company’s incentives. No reasonable person in Atlas would argue otherwise. No reasonable person in Atlas would help.

“Your actions, your choices have consequences,” her father continues, head tilted back and steel-blue eyes sharp. “It’s time you remembered that. It’s time you remembered what it means to be a Schnee.”

A flash of red burns in her periphery, the frozen portrait of her grandfather — stalwart and ever dignified. Watching. It kindles the resolve flickering against the knots in her chest. Her father tried to stop her from going to Beacon before. Weiss faced that challenge, beat him at his own game, and she can do it again.

She won’t let him win.

“What do you want from me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was trying for a weekly update schedule, but work blew up and I underestimated how long it takes me to edit (still learning). 
> 
> Many thanks to everyone reading.


	5. Counterpoint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Counterpoint: a musical style that combines simultaneous independent melodies into a meaningful harmonic relationship; to set in contrast

Familiar things fit differently under new circumstances.

The blazer’s dark blue fabric hugs her biceps tighter than when Weiss last wore it, and the skirt’s sleekness no longer makes up for the restriction in mobility. Both represent a small price to pay for greater freedom. She applies a hint of makeup on her scar, adjusts her ponytail to the center, and completes her outfit with a pair of silver earrings.

As she prepares to leave her room, Weiss reaches for her scroll, a habit trained into her at Beacon. Besides communication, scrolls serve as navigation tools, health monitors, signals. In dangerous situations a scroll can mean the difference between a botched mission and a final one.

A lifeline.

But here in Atlas, Weiss doesn’t need any of that, especially a way to project her whereabouts. Quite the opposite, in fact, her current predicament stems from being too transparent. Too naïve. She shuts off the device and slides it to the corner of her desk, so there’s nothing for her father to exploit.

Satisfied, Weiss exits her room to greet whatever challenge he prepared.

General Ironwood looks as surprised to see Weiss as she feels when she sees him at the entrance, head held high in wait. The expression smoothes over as he straightens in greeting.

“Miss Schnee, it’s a pleasure to see you again.”

“Good afternoon,” Weiss greets, glancing over the shoulder of his white uniform. “Are you by yourself today?”

“Yes,” he replies with a slight draw of his eyebrows. “Was your father expecting someone else?”

“No,” she says with a tight smile. “No one else was expected. Please, follow me.”

“After you,” he says, and then proceeds to march through the halls with a familiarity that pushes him a pace ahead of Weiss the entire walk to her father’s office.

The heavy clunks from his boots mix with the light clack of heels in the absence of conversation.

“James, good to see you as always,” her father greets from behind his desk when they enter his study. He doesn’t move from his chair, gesturing at the seats in the sitting area beneath him with a patented smile. “Please, have a seat.”

“Jacques,” Ironwood greets as he sits down on the couch, back barely touching the seat. When Weiss perches in a seat across the table, he regards her with faint interest. “I didn’t realize you would join us today, Miss Schnee.”

Before Weiss can respond, her father interjects from above, “Unlike her sister, Weiss has taken an interest in the family business.”

“I’m here to broaden my experiences and learn,” Weiss says, directly to General Ironwood. “I figured that experience dealing with a variety of _difficulties_ would serve me well.”

Ironwood offers her an awkward smile. “I wish more of our students at Atlas Academy possessed the same attitude.”

Her father chuckles a thin sound. “It’s a real loss for your academy that Beacon got to her instead.”

“While we want the best for Atlas,” Ironwood replies, his voice steady, “I’m certain your daughter will fully utilize her talents wherever she is and that benefits us all.”

“Yes, how does the saying go? All for one...”

“One for all,” General Ironwood finishes.

Her father snaps his fingers, looking pleased, and he laughs lower than before. “Right as always.”

Ironwood shifts to face him, hands braced against his knees. That’s when Weiss realizes he doesn’t have the gun normally holstered to his side. It’s a strange sight but not without precedent even for a Huntsman. At Beacon, Professor Oobleck emphasized they couldn’t always rely on their weapons. Fighting generates more negativity, more chaos, more Grimm. The strongest Huntsmen understand when to back down, how to keep calm.

Even during encounters with the most unpleasant beings.

“Jacques, you can’t keep raising prices on the dust you sell to the city. We need to cut other services to account for the increased cost.”

“If I don’t continue to raise prices, the business won’t be able to survive,” her father counters. “Do you understand what would befall the kingdom if that happened? We would lose jobs. Livelihoods. _Lives_.”

“If Atlas suffers that also damages your company,” Ironwood points out. “Your factories and workers are located here.”

The response is instant. “Most of our facilities. I hate to use such unsentimental language — Atlas is our home after all — but we sell and operate all around Remnant.”

“Like Vale,” Ironwood observes. “That project appears to have cost your company a significant sum. Perhaps you could have accounted for Atlas prior to expanding elsewhere.”

“The money we spent there was charity for that horrible tragedy. Who understands better than the SDC what it means to suffer at the hands of that terrorist group,” her father replies with unrepentant sympathy. “The building was incidental. Surely, as a member of the Atlas Council, you aren’t criticizing an act of diplomacy meant to foster good relations between our kingdoms?”

What utter nonsense (or, as Yang might say, total fucking bullshit). Weiss almost says so, too, but she catches herself at the thought of Beacon. Better to play along and get it over with. Speaking up won’t accomplish anything except raise her father’s suspicions.

He can say whatever he wants. It doesn’t matter.

Ironwood seems to arrive at the same decision, looking thoroughly unmoved but disinclined to argue.

“As much as we appreciate diplomacy, it does no good for our citizens if they can’t afford the dust required to power their military, heat and electricity.”

“Is it a price they can’t afford or one the _Council_ is unwilling to pay?”

General Ironwood doesn’t flinch. “Both.”

Her father scoffs. “We’re talking about the good of the kingdom. Is there really a price you’re unwilling to pay? Do you know how much lien I lose selling to your council when I could sell all the dust privately or to the other kingdoms?”

“It’s a tremendous loss, I’m sure.”

“A loss I proudly accepted for the betterment of Atlas.” Her father leans forward with a palm flat against his chest, not quite where his heart should be. “James, you know better than anyone what I’ve given up to you and the kingdom. Surely, you can sacrifice a few paper pushers for the same.”

Something in the air shifts. Weiss feels General Ironwood’s eyes cut into her, but before she can discern his expression, his attention snaps back to her father. They watch each other: her father looking down from behind his desk with one hand against his chest, General Ironwood rigid and broad-shouldered.

“Let me discuss with the council,” Ironwood finally says.

“Don’t forget,” her father says with a tip of his head, “you hold two seats on the council.”

General Ironwood’s posture remains stilted even as his voice swells. “And I’ll use them to make the best decision for all of Atlas.”

Jacques Schnee smiles. “I’m sure you will. For _all_ of us _._ ”

* * *

All of Professor Port’s lectures didn’t prepare Weiss for the drudgery of the report her father _requested_ that she read. At least those stories might contain a morsel of substance, something (anything) useful if she searched hard enough. Everything written here is somehow more tedious and yet even emptier of meaning.

None of it — the cloying jargon, the soaring charts, the self-congratulatory smirk of her father’s photo printed across the first page — matters.

Weiss pushes away from her desk. If she needs to suffer through this, she may as well do it caffeinated.

As she exits her room, a flash of white hair skirts around the corner: a familiar sight trying to remain unseen. A spike of irritation sears through Weiss, and she pursues in quick strides just short of running, pinning Whitley with a glare.

“I can’t believe you told him about my personal business,” Weiss snaps. “Actually, I shouldn't be surprised. You are still such a _child_.”

“What does it matter?” Whitley grumbles, eyes darting around her. “He didn’t punish you for anything. You’re meeting with his associates.”

“Sorry to disappoint. Was this not the outcome you envisioned when you were _gossiping_ to him about my private conversations?”

“I wasn’t trying to do anything. I wanted—” His mouth snaps shut, a flush creeping up his pale features.

“Wanted what? For him to forget about me and turn all his attention to you?” A rush of cold satisfaction shoots through Weiss when Whitley glowers. “Well, looks like neither one of us is getting what we want.”

* * *

Robyn Hill is not what Weiss expects. The feeling is mutual.

“Please don’t tell me Jacques Schnee sent a _child_ instead of meeting me himself.”

The woman glaring from the end of the hallway stalks forward with a flap of her worn overcoat. Rather than wait at the entrance as instructed, she apparently saw fit to see herself in. Unaccompanied and unhappy.

“Excuse me?” Weiss crosses her arms across her chest. “I’m—”

“I know who you are,” Hill interjects with a flap of her hand. “Weiss Schnee, the heiress who ran off to Beacon. It’s not everyday rich kids like you leave behind their fancy mansions and special treatment. You caused quite a stir among the upper echelons when you left.”

Weiss takes a deep breath. It doesn’t matter what she thinks, what any of them think.

“You don’t strike me as someone who cares about high society gossip.”

“Believe me, I don’t. But I make it a point to keep up because high society trash makes its way down to the rest of us, eventually.”

“You’re rather direct for a newly elected Councilwoman,” Weiss replies behind a dry smile.

“Sorry for the offense,” Hill says, sounding oh, so apologetic. “I’m sure your family is used to council members cowing down to you, but the people of Mantle elected me because they knew I wouldn’t back down, not for them.”

“That’s…admirable.”

Hill blinks in disbelief with one hand on her hip. “Uh huh.”

“I mean it,” Weiss says, forcing herself not to roll her eyes. “One of my teammates at Beacon spent her entire life fighting for the less fortunate, and she’s one of the best people I know.”

Hill’s mouth crooks. “Would you look at that, Schnees have hearts.”

Another breath. “We’re people, like everyone else.”

“And you have senses of humor, too. Amazing.” Hill’s expression hardens, and her arm falls from her hip into a fist. “Listen, princess, you can tell me all about being like the rest of us after you spend your entire life working yourself to the ground _for nothing_.”

“My father is the one responsible for the current conditions at the SDC,” Weiss says. Her jaw hurts from the effort of keeping her voice contained. “I’m not him, and he’s not representative of the family. My sister gave up her life to serve the Atlas military, and I’m—” _trying_ “—training to become a Huntress.”

“How _admirable_ ,” Hill says, but the edge of righteousness in her voice slips, not into understanding, but sympathy which pierces right between Weiss’ ribs.

“Call me in a few decades when training is over. I’m here to speak with your father.”

* * *

On the first day of the semester at Beacon, Weiss mapped out the fastest routes between the dorm and all their classes (and, after thinking of Ruby, between those destinations and the cafeteria). She made it a point to schedule ample time, but unforeseen circumstances around her team were eminently foreseeable. Knowing the fastest routes helped when her plans went awry.

The fastest way to go from her bedroom to her father’s study requires passing by the garden.

Weiss never takes that path.

She doesn’t need to, not when Atlas progresses with plodding and predictable surety.

* * *

Arthur Watts is exactly the kind of man Weiss avoided at dinner parties: charming and all too aware of it. She can tell from the moment he waltzes through her father’s study with ease, the gold embroidered across his suit right at home with the lavish decor.

“It’s an honor to meet you, Miss Schnee. I can’t believe I haven’t had the pleasure until now.”

Weiss accepts his outstretched hand in a limp handshake. “I’ve been away at Beacon.”

“So I gathered.” Watts leans forward, oozing with understanding. “I hope you know that Beacon is a perfectly respectable option. James Ironwood never recognized talent, even when placed right in front of him.”

“Beacon was my first choice over Atlas,” Weiss clarifies.

“Was it now? How _enterprising._ ” Watts glances backward with a smirk of his mustache. “She takes after you, Jacques.”

A familiar sting twists in her chest. Weiss schools her jaw into practiced politeness. “I—”

“Oh, I’m afraid I can’t take credit for her,” her father interrupts with a shake of his head and a glint of sorrow. “Weiss always took more after her mother.”

* * *

“Miss Schnee, pardon me for asking, but are you feeling unwell? You look rather fatigued.”

Weiss blinks up from the page, surprised by the sudden brightness in her room when Klein turns on a light. The first shadows of sunset hang outside. When did it get so late?

“It’s nothing,” she says, rolling out a knot in her shoulders. “Just a bit tired.”

Klein sets down a cup of coffee on her desk. “Please let me know if there’s anything I can assist you with.”

“Thank you, Klein. I’ll let you know if there’s anything.”

* * *

“Our mutual acquaintance Miss Hill paid me a visit the other day.”

“I understand it was a contentious meeting,” General Ironwood replies with one hand braced near his thigh. The other rubs against a hint of stubble on his chin.

Her father chuckles. “She certainly is spirited.”

“Robyn is…passionate. Like many students we receive at the Academy.”

“And under your tutelage, I know she’ll learn how to wield her office more effectively.” Her father waves a hand. “In a few years she may have what it takes to get the job done.”

He continues, “But until then, Atlas is depending on _you_ to fulfill the promise of the Council. To keep us safe and strong.”

Ironwood’s grip tightens around the empty spot where his gun isn’t. “Have you considered my last proposal?”

“It’s moving in the right direction.”

“We do have a deadline approaching. If we don’t get the requisite dust certain sectors of Mantle won’t be able to continue running.”

“Not to worry,” her father replies. “With our combined efforts, I have no doubt we can arrive at a mutually beneficial outcome soon.”

* * *

When Ruby had first learned about Weiss’ detailed diagrams plotting out the quickest paths around Beacon, she laughed.

“What?” Weiss had asked. “You plan contingencies for our battle strategies. How is planning for tardiness any different?”

“Because you don’t have to worry about being late,” Ruby replied, her smile widening, “not when you have me.”

Weiss recognized the twinkle in Ruby’s eyes: it never ended well for her.

Before she could protest, Ruby's arms wound around her waist, and then the world — Beacon, all coherent thought, stability — disappeared. For a single moment, nothing existed. Then at once, _everything_ , intertwined into an all-embracing bewilderment of being, sensation without feeling, all that ever was and will be, wreathed in red.

The miracle left as it came: abruptly.

Weiss staggered, trying to remember how to stand on solid ground. Through the exhilaration tingling on her skin, she felt the warmth of a hand steady against her waist, holding her upright.

“Whoops. Sorry, forgot we’ve never done that before,” Ruby said, her voice fuzzy and sweet with concern. “Are you okay?”

In place of any dozen admonitions, Weiss breathed, “Does it always feel like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re flying or untouchable or...free.”

Still unsteady, Weiss leaned into Ruby, and she could feel the light tap of fingers near her ribs as Ruby considered it for a moment, then laughed and shook her head.

“Nah, it’s more like a big, fast _whoosh_. And then it’s over.”

* * *

“I can’t believe you’re going to give in. Actually, I can believe it. That's what you always do.”

Councilwoman Hill’s furious whisper bounces around the foyer’s vaulted dome ceiling and marble floors to the hallway where Weiss stands, pressed against the wall in wait.

General Ironwood’s response is less animated but no less clear. “We are still negotiating, but we need to consider the common good.”

“The ‘common good’ looks suspiciously similar to Schnee pockets.”

“Robyn—” A grumble. “Councilwoman Hill, I understand your frustration, but the choice is to jeopardize public safety or cut some non-essential services.”

“That’s an easy choice for you to make when you’re not the one paying the price.”

“I am sacrificing as well.”

“Your integrity doesn’t count.”

A pause. “If you have better solutions, please, I implore you to offer them.”

“I definitely have _other_ solutions.”

“I’m familiar with your brand of tactics, and they won’t work here. Jacques Schnee isn’t someone impressed by brute force.”

A sharp laugh. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I was going to suggest a firm handshake.”

“That wouldn’t accomplish anything either. The only thing he believes in is his company.”

“Wonderful. Have we tried pedestrian appeals to love or kindness or unity?”

There’s a grunt or perhaps a laugh. Weiss can’t remember ever hearing either from General Ironwood.

“I think we’d have better luck trying to defeat Grimm with that approach.”

* * *

Whitley doesn’t skitter away upon sight when Weiss encounters him in the hallway the next day. He stops and opens his mouth as if to speak but says nothing, gazing at her with open interest.

A dull throb of irritation joins her existing headache. “Can I help you with something?”

“You seem different.”

“I’m aware. You already told me, remember? When you were still pretending to be nice to me before Father returned.”

“I don’t pretend,” Whitley hisses.

“Well, whatever it was, you can do us both a favor and stop.” Weiss brushes passed him, not in the mood to waste time arguing. “Then we can return to having nothing to do with each other. Like you always wanted.”

* * *

“It’s always a pleasure doing business with you, Jacques,” Watts says as he clasps her father’s hand in a firm handshake.

“And you,” her father replies. “I only wish I could say the same for some of my more disagreeable associates.”

“Who needs enemies?” Watts agrees.

They share a laugh as pleasant as a pair of notes ringing together out of tune.

“How about a drink?” her father proposes. “To celebrate the occasion.”

“Why not?” Watts lounges back in his seat, one leg draped over the other, hand resting across the back of the couch. “A drink never hurt anyone.”

He turns as her father retrieves a champagne bottle from behind his desk. “Will you be joining us, Miss Schnee?”

Weiss jolts in her seat, but then collects herself. She didn’t think he remembered her presence.

“I know you’re technically still young under current law,” Watts says with a cavalier flourish of his wrist, “but what’s a little rule-breaking between compatriots?”

“No, thank you,” Weiss replies. “I don’t—” The bottle in her father’s hand uncorks with a gunshot-like pop. “—I’m not a drinker.”

Watts smirks. “Clever girl. Better to keep your faculties sharp. You never know who may take advantage; it may very well be the people you least expect.”

Or the most. It was better, being ignored.

Weiss plasters on a smile. “I appreciate the advice.”

Her father pours into two stemmed glasses. Weiss tries not to notice as the smell seeps outward. It doesn’t matter.

“Atlas owes you a great debt, Jacques,” Watts says as he accepts one glass. “It’s a shame no one understood genius in his own time.”

“Please, it’s all the company,” her father says, preening with modesty.

Watts lifts his champagne in a toast. “You and the company: they’re one and the same.”

Glasses clink. They both down their drinks in one fell swoop, draining them of their contents. But not of the aroma: light, fragrant.

Flowery.

* * *

  
It doesn’t matter.  
  


* * *

  
It shouldn’t matter.  
  


* * *

  
  
What does any of it really matter.

* * *

Weiss reads a paragraph once. Then again. The words on the page blur; the numbers tumble onto each other.

Nothing makes any sense.

She rubs a hand against her eyes. There’s something missing.

She needs…

She needs coffee.

Weiss considers asking Klein to bring a cup for her, but decides against it and pushes away from her desk. The sudden motion sends her vision reeling black.

The hallway outside is quiet as usual. No one spends significant time in the residential wing of the manor, not when important matters happen elsewhere.

No one except for Whitley.

“Good afternoon,” he greets with a loose smile and a strange bounce in his step.

Weiss ignores him and continues down the hallway.

“You know,” Whitley continues from behind, “it’s awfully rude not to respond when people address you.”

A cold sensation trickles down her spine. Weiss pauses, her back to him. “Something you learned from Father?”

“No; unlike you, I learned manners all on my own.”

There’s an undercurrent to Whitley’s voice, something jagged. It prompts Weiss to turn around and face him.

“Don’t you have _important_ things to be doing?” she asks.

“Since you’ve been meeting with Father and his associates, I have plenty of free time on my hands,” Whitley replies, but there’s no bitterness in his voice. “It’s refreshing in a way. Liberating.”

“Congratulations,” Weiss replies flatly, “I’m glad you finally did something on your own.”

“I’ll have you know, I’ve been making my own way for a very long time.”

“Please, everything you’ve ever done has been because of Father.”

“Actually, all my choices have always been my own,” Whitley says, words buoyant and light, like bubbles rising to the surface of a glass of champagne. “I want to listen to Father. I want to pursue the family business. I want to stay in Atlas. _I want to be here._ ”

“I have the power to do everything I want.” He lifts one shoulder in almost a shrug and lets it fall. “But I guess you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

That invisible, choking grip yanks around her chest, and air rushes from Weiss’ lungs, rendering her unable to breathe let alone speak. The dizziness from before rears back, and the hallway narrows into nothing but Whitley’s stupid, half-cocked grin aimed directly at her.

“Shut. Up,” Weiss growls, biting off each word.

Whitley’s head tilts back, lip curling, but not into a smirk. No, the look spreading across his face is worse than arrogance or smugness or even condescension:

it’s _pity_.

“If that’s what you want,” he says, all lip and pearly teeth.

Weiss can’t stand to look at him.

She storms back to her room, the door thundering as it slams shut. The air inside is quieter, colder, easier to breathe. But it’s not enough to quell the hot shame clawing against her aura.

Certain deficiencies Weiss learned to tolerate if not accept. But to be lower than Whitley? Whitley, who wouldn’t know what clothes to wear if it weren’t for their father. Whitley, who obeyed. Whitley, who never learned how to fight.

Weiss refuses to be weaker than _Whitley_.

Sunlight glitters off Myrtenaster when she open its case, the blade too clean from disuse. Weiss raises her weapon, hilt clutched with a sloppy resolve. If Winter were here, she would criticize the technique, but that doesn’t matter. Winter isn’t here.

What is here — the stillness, the emptiness, the silence — breaks apart as a summoning glyph roars to life.

The force ripples through the room, through Weiss. Her muscles, slack from weeks of no training, tighten as the intensity swells. Myrtenaster wobbles in her hand, but Weiss grapples to keep hold of the strength beating beneath her fingertips. She didn’t remember it being this difficult to maintain control. Maybe she should have warmed up first.

Weiss grits her teeth. Maybe she shouldn’t have let herself grow weak.

She pushes harder, and the light pulses ever faster, ever brighter. The room blurs; her head feels like it’s splitting apart. Everything dulls but the glyph as it spins and spins and spins.

It’s so bright.

It’s so impossibly white.

Weiss snaps her eyes shut, but she can still feel it swirling all around her — the energy dancing across her skin, flush against her body — thrumming and wild and intoxicating.

_It’s so close._

It’s —

The glyph dissipates.

It’s gone.

Weiss collapses to her knees, breaths coming in broken, unsteady gasps. Myrtenaster clatters to the floor. The blue-grey of her room tilts. Her thoughts careen and collide. Everything is _spinning._

_Why is everything spinning?_

Bracing against her desk, Weiss pulls herself up, knocking loose papers. Something else craters, deafening alongside the heady sensation pounding in her skull.

_Why is everything so loud?_

She bends down to pick up the fallen object, and her hand closes around something smooth. Something cold. Something achingly familiar.

Still numb fingers fumble with the scroll as she lifts it from the ground. Weiss stares, transfixed, at the screen for one long moment, and she watches her hand turn the device back on.

A flurry of notifications and unread messages and missed calls flashes across the screen. In a haze, Weiss swipes through them, not registering anything but a whirlwind of lines and colors, until finally, she reaches the last messages she sent.

 **[Weiss]:** Sorry, can’t talk. I’m dealing with something.

 **[Weiss]:** I’ll call you back later.

 **[Ruby]:** :(

They’re right there, right there in front of her, cupped in her palm. But the words seem far away. Untouchable.

Nothing but a distant echo, already fled too far to listen.

A familiar ache seizes around her chest. It’s almost too much to bear, piercing and twisting and _awful._ But then, like a miracle, the vice coiling around her heart _snaps._

In one graceful motion, Weiss hurls her scroll across the room and watches it crumple against the wall. Even from a distance, she can see the moment everything goes dark with a tinkle of crunching glass.

It’s almost musical, the way the light shatters.

* * *

After that first experience with Ruby’s semblance, Weiss didn’t understand her partner’s nonchalance about her abilities. Weiss had her glyphs, Blake apparitions, and even Yang could propel herself with the firepower of her gauntlets, but none of those altered their fundamental beings.

Allowed them to defy _gravity_.

At the time, Weiss figured it was Ruby’s modesty speaking: her uncanny ability to make the ordinary seem magical and the impossible less so.

But maybe it was simpler than that. Maybe Ruby was right.

Maybe that’s all there is: a fleeting moment of impossibility, and then it’s all over.

* * *

On General Ironwood’s last visit, he comes alone.

“This is the best I can do for you,” he says, handing his scroll over the desk.

Her father peers at the numbers on the screen, and his mouth twitches. “Well, if that’s really the best you can do, then I suppose I have no choice but to accept.”

“It’s settled, then.” Ironwood nods once and slips his scroll back into the wrinkled pocket of his uniform. “The rest of the council, with one exception, already signed off.”

“I take it Miss Hill had some choice words about your decision.”

“Councilwoman Hill and I have our differences,” Ironwood replies, rising from his seat, “but we both want the same thing.”

“You may both want the same thing, but only one of you got it done.” Her father’s voice dips as he leans over the table. “People are so quick to judge without recognizing the true strength it takes to be a leader, and that’s what you are, James: a leader. Why, I would even call you a hero.”

Something flickers across General Ironwood’s face against the shadow of his unshaven beard. “While I appreciate the commendation, I can’t accept it. I’m merely carrying out my responsibilities.”

Her father smiles. “If only everyone performed their jobs with so much integrity.”

“Perhaps one day. Unfortunately, I can’t plan on future miracles, only present circumstances.”

“Naturally. Only children and fools depend on wishful thinking.”

“On that, we can agree.” Ironwood turns and offers Weiss a dip of his head as he exits. The minuscule movement looks taxing. “Miss Schnee, if there’s ever anything I can do for you, please don’t hesitate to reach out.”

“Thank you,” Weiss replies politely, even as she knows there’s nothing General Ironwood can do for her.

After the door shuts and his heavy footfalls fade away, her father speaks again. “He’s a good man, James Ironwood.”

“He cares about Atlas,” Weiss says, not bothering to face him.

“As do we all.”

Weiss can’t help herself: she laughs.

Even without looking, she can feel her father’s eyes bear down on her. “Is something about that amusing to you?”

“You care? Is that why you force General Ironwood and the Council to bargain with you for dust needed to keep the entire city running?”

“Personal feelings have no bearing on company matters. We run a business, not a charity.”

“What about Vale? What happened to goodwill?” Weiss snarks. “To diplomacy?”

“You know the reason I spent so much money in Vale,” he replies coolly. “Don’t tell me you weren’t paying the attention the first time I explained it to you. Or that you’ve already forgotten.”

And, of course, Weiss knows the real reason: leverage, over a city beaten down and vulnerable and desperate and—

“I did it for you.”

Her head snaps up as if pulled by a puppet string.

“Excuse me?”

A small, inexplicable part of Weiss expects to see him smiling, to be joking, because that’s the only reasonable explanation for a statement so absurd. The rest of her, carved from Atlas through and through, knows the truth. Her father doesn’t know how to joke. And sure enough, when she searches his expression, Weiss finds only stone-cold sincerity.

“After you wandered off to Beacon, I couldn’t help but worry. A daughter of mine, so far from home, from the safety Atlas. Anything could happen to you out there with no one watching over you.” His impassive expression cracks with a sliver of derision. “Take the fiasco with those lowlifes. Our soldiers would have stopped them before they nearly leveled the entire city.”

“We defeated them,” Weiss retorts, nails digging into her palm to stop the tremor.

“It’s hardly a victory when half the city was in shambles afterwards.”

“Professor Goodwitch repaired the damage within hours.”

“Your professor merely salvaged the superficial.” He rises from his chair and begins a slow descent from the elevated platform. “But I saw an opportunity to build something better in its place. To watch over things and make sure nothing else went awry.”

Weiss surges up from her seat. “Vale didn’t need your help.”

“Vale was _grateful_ for all the aid we provided, and the building is a permanent reminder that they understand what we did for them. They understand that you don’t turn your back on the people responsible for who you are.”

“You aren’t _responsible_ for anything.” Her hands twitch at her side as something ugly wells up within her, threatening to escape. “Vale was always fine without you.”

“ _Fine_?” Her father throws up his hands. “Is that the standard you hold yourself to after going to Beacon? If that’s what you think this family stands for, then you haven’t learned a thing.”

“We should be the best, and the best don’t exploit innocent people for their own benefit.” She’s yelling now, but with the blood rushing to her head, the words might as well be a whisper.

“Exploitation is an excuse for the powerless to remain weak. Everything I do ensures our family remains strong.” He thrusts a finger at her, waving it in the small space of empty air separating them. “For _your_ benefit. For Atlas’s benefit.”

Weiss wants to scream. What comes out instead is only marginally more controlled.

“The only reason you have power is because you stole it from my grandfather!”

Her father’s eyes blaze, and his hand jerks backward. Weiss flinches back against the couch, braces, and her vision goes white. But there’s no pain. It’s her father who recoils as a glyph explodes between them into a barrier. The hand falls limp, and his mouth thins into a hard, pale line, distorted by the light of the Schnee emblem.

Silence stretches between them, long and delicate. And then, Jacques Schnee chuckles.

“Say what you want. I seized power and made it my own.”

Weiss swallows, heartbeat hammering away. “The Schnee legacy isn’t yours, and I’ll prove it as a Huntress.”

“And how do you plan on doing that,” he replies without pause, adjusting the cuffs on his sleeve, “when James Ironwood and his Council and his army stood no chance? There is nothing a single Huntress can do to rival the Schnee Dust Company.” Each word rings louder and clearer, unbothered and true. “Without this family, you would be no better than the rest of them. Just as powerless.”

_He’s wrong._

Her jaw moves, but nothing comes out, snared between the memories of failed summons and failed people and _not good enough_. The protest withers in her throat. Her hands are still trembling, now with the added burden of maintaining the barrier.

There’s a sigh, and the reproach in her father’s face twists into something unfamiliar. He edges forward. The glyph between them spins and spins and spins.

“I feel sorry for them, you know, people like Robyn Hill. They insist on tearing things down, on taking, on fighting, and to what end? People like her will never change. They won’t even deign to try, trapped by their own preconceived notions. People like her will never understand people like us.”

He takes another step closer, not close enough to touch the barrier, but close enough to reveal the flint of his eyes. They’re the same blue shade as her own.

“Weiss, I know how much you love this family, how you want to help people, how much you’re willing to give. I know because that’s what it means to be a _Schnee_ : we give others what they want, what they need. We provide.”

The words lance straight through her, _burning_ , not because of any anger in his voice. No, he sounds almost gentle. Like he understands. Like they’re a normal father and daughter. Like he cares.

He raises a hand, palm up, open like a promise.

“Imagine what you could do leading the Vale branch with all the money and power of the company. You could provide energy for the city and jobs for the people and dust for Beacon.”

Weiss can’t move; her limbs are too heavy, too shaky, too warm. _Why is everything so warm?_

“You could shape our family legacy, make your grandfather proud. You could take care of your friends.”

The glyph between them shimmers like stained glass — beautiful and bright and breakable.

“You could be a hero, Weiss. All you have to do is come home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (:


	6. Theme and Variations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Theme and variations: a musical structure in which a melody is first introduced and then repeated with alterations

Darkness.

Enveloping everything — the heaviness above, softness below, emptiness inside, all in a fleecy blanket of black.

Bits and pieces drift through the darkness. A click. Footsteps. Sharp acid. Something sweet. A voice, gentle.

More footsteps. Rustling. Something opens. Another shuts. The ache is constant. And everywhere. Legs, arms, chest, head, eyes.

Eyes open.

White floor meets white tables, white chairs. Grey curtains parted. Dusty sunlight — one narrow strip passing over the bed, through the eyes, ending atop the desk. On the desk, black coffee, cream-colored crepes, an open jar of blueberry jam. Sweet and so far away.

Eyes close. Return to colors unseen.

But darkness is fragile, breaking under a single sliver of light. And some things, once gone, can never return: words, once spoken; promises, once broken; eyes, once opened.

Memories though, they never leave. Atlas. Whitley. Father. The cold. Ironwood. Watts. _The smell._ Hill. Heat. Father.

So try as she might, Weiss can’t escape, no matter how hard she tries to bury herself beneath the blankets.

* * *

The coffee is cold. So are the crepes.

Weiss doesn’t touch the jam.

* * *

The water against her face is cold. It dries to a lukewarm heat, the kind Weiss knows best.

Atlas was never truly warm, even during what could generously be termed “summer”, but it was also never hot; the sweltering, sticky kind of heat that soaked Weiss her first summer in Vale, sunlight scalding and burning pale skin. But the heat hadn’t been the worst part. It was the humidity suffocating the air and sapping strength, reducing desire to a disgusting sluggish misery that ended in a douse of dust-produced ice and the acquisition of a high-powered fan flow in from Atlas.

She grew accustomed to the heat but never learned to like it. In her lowest moments at the highest peak of sun, Weiss thought of Atlas. She dreamt of the dust controlled climate and the crisp callous air and the wide berth between bodies that separated their natural heat.

No, Atlas was never warm; that was always the best part.

* * *

Even after the cold, the pressure behind her eyes refuses to ebb. Neither does the steady soreness of every nerve, wrought like her aura doesn’t exist.

Those lucky enough to unlock their auras can learn to use them to heal, but to depend on an aura means being vulnerable. Healing only happens after being harmed.

As they say in Atlas: prevention renders the need for a cure obsolete. Atlesians don’t need auras, not with the biting cold to repel the Grimm. Not with the manufactured heat keeping the cold at a distance. Not with wealth walling off deprivation. Not with military might deterring all else.

No one needs an aura, not with the best defense; Atlas can't be hurt because it pushes everything away.

* * *

The bed dips but holds steady without so much as a creak of protest. It never wavered despite years of being assailed by exhausted thumps following long days and late nights.

In Atlas, people build things to last, both for efficiency and by necessity. Any minor imperfection — a defective heater, a cracked roof, a broken barrier meant to safeguard against Grimm — can lead to devastating consequences. Do it once and do it right.

Myrtenaster is one of those Atlas-built masterpieces: no altered forms, no unnecessary mechanics, nothing that easily breaks. Its strength, its grace, its dynamism derives from stability. Through fire and frost and friction and flesh, the blade never bends. It never fails.

Things built to last, they never change.

That’s the most innovative thing about Atlas; it always stays the same.

* * *

Her eyes shut despite the sun, and limbs sink into the sheets, buoyed by an endless sea of softness. Some might call it floating, others drowning. Weiss knows better. It’s not flying or falling but suspending in place, tethered like a city to the sky.

Though the mind empties with each departing thought, the body never grows lighter, never risks drifting away. Even absences carry weight, each one different. There are gradations of darkness, degrees of coldness, speeds of stillness, and loneliness—

There are infinitely many kinds of loneliness.

There is the loneliness of empty seats at dinner tables and solo performances and ballrooms packed with masks and no faces; the loneliness of fame, of misfortune, of failure, of grief; that of love, unrequited; there is the loneliness of isolation from others, and the loneliness of separation from oneself.

There are infinitely many kinds of loneliness but what they share in common, is want.

And all Weiss wants is to fucking sleep.

* * *

She can’t.

* * *

There’s something in the air.

Something sweet.

_It won’t go away._

Why won’t it leave? That’s all she wants, to be left alone...

... Isn’t it?

  
  


Her eyes pry open but can’t muster anything beyond a squint at the afternoon sunlight filtering in through the window. It’s her own fault. She should have closed the curtains when she got up earlier. The sweet scent from before draws her attention to the open jar of jam. She should have shut that, too.

There are infinitely many things Weiss should have done, but it’s too late for any of them. She doesn’t want to move. All her parts feel frayed and disconnected, a collection of notes with no rhythm, no beat, no melody. Waiting to come apart.

Sprawled on her bed, Weiss stares up at the canopy. Nothing happens. Beds don’t move in Atlas. They, as with everything, exude a stolid dignity, a dignity Weiss sorely lacks.

The same dignity she fled Atlas to find.

From the day Weiss left for Beacon, she imagined her return to Atlas. She imagined bearing her family’s name, how it would resound with a different weight from the public mouth, affixed with more than the title of heiress; imagined respect from even the most contemptuous elites; imagined being more than her father’s daughter, imagined being her mother’s.

Years at Beacon didn’t eliminate those fantasies, but the details changed and in place of nameless masses she imagined showing Blake her family name changing the world for the better, dazzling Yang with all of Atlas’ greatest experiences (the shopping, the dancing, the music), welcoming Ruby into her home the same way Ruby offered hers: with pride.

But those were dreams, and her team doesn’t belong in the real Atlas. They deserve better than its imperfections.

Weiss presses a hand against the fatigue in her temple, willing her thoughts away.

She needs to stop dreaming.

She needs to focus.

She needs…

There’s a knock at her door. “Miss Schnee?”

Weiss sits up, carding a hand through her tangled hair and smoothing down her crumpled nightgown to tidy her disheveled appearance. It’s an instinct drilled in from years of growing up with the threat of strangers who required impressing at any moment. But the voice is no stranger’s, far from it, and Weiss relaxes, letting her hair fall without care.

“Klein,” she calls through the door. “You can come in.”

Klein shuffles into her bedroom, balancing a saucer with a steaming cup in one hand. As he nears, Weiss detects a hint of chamomile.

“It’s good to see you awake,” Klein says, smiling.

He sets the cup nearby on the dresser, right beside her broken scroll and Myrtenaster’s case, and then moves to her desk to clean the remains of breakfast. Weiss watches Klein screw back the lid on the untouched jam, then handle the discarded plate and cutlery with utmost care, as if there weren’t thousands of identical replacements.

“Thank you for bringing me food earlier,” Weiss says. “I know it’s always been your way of looking after me.”

“I find that a good meal acts as a salve, if not an antidote, to our woes.” Klein pats his stomach. “And if not a meal, then something sweet.”

He laughs with a low rumble at his own joke. Weiss tries to offer a halfhearted smile. There’s a dull ache in her chest, one that began ever since she stepped back in Atlas, so familiar at this point that she almost doesn’t notice. It almost doesn’t hurt.

“A friend of mine would definitely agree with you on the sweets.”

The mirth in Klein’s eyes softens, no less fond but gentler. “I’d always hoped to hear that from you.”

“Sweets?”

“Friends.”

Weiss almost laughs. “You make it sound like I lived in some kind of tragedy.”

Klein hums. “Was it not one of sorts?”

“I had all my needs taken care of. I had opportunities most people could never imagine.” Weiss smooths out a wrinkle in the silk sheets. “If my life is a tragedy, then who could ever be satisfied?”

“Is that what you are?” Klein’s eyes pass over her dresser, where the remains of her scroll catch the afternoon light, and then settle on her. “Satisfied?”

Weiss looks away, to the corner of the room where Klein swept away the glass shards without her noticing.

“Are you satisfied, working here? There are other families who would pay as well without all the extra hassle.” Her voice grows smaller, and the raised scar tissue around her left eye seems to rise a little higher. “Other families where you don’t constantly clean up after their mistakes.”

Weiss doesn’t expect a response. It’s an unfair question in search of an answer no one can give.

“They say no amount of preparation can ever prepare you,” Klein starts to her surprise, “but I must confess, I didn’t understand the extent of it until I experienced it firsthand.”

“Being a butler?” Weiss asks and then winces at how dismissive she sounds. She really should know better than to talk by now. Nothing good ever seems to come of it. “I’m sorry. I didn’t intend that the way it sounded.”

“Not a worry,” Klein says, and he dips his head. “I’m flattered if you think I make it look easy.”

“Between my father and Whitley and my mom and me…I can’t imagine it is easy.”

“In truth, it’s a tremendous undertaking.” He straightens, looking more serious than usual. “My first responsibility is to keep everyone well-nourished. After that, care for other needs and once satisfied, then I anticipate future needs. To prepare for unanticipated trouble.”

“That sounds impossible, especially around here.”

“As a butler, my highest hope is that I can equip a home for any difficulties it may face, but though I strive to keep things safe and orderly—”

Klein holds up the plate in his hand and with a conspiratorial wink, lets it fall to the floor where it shatters into dozens of porcelain pieces. Weiss gasps and bolts from her bed, but he waves her off with a smile.

“Part of my duties includes putting things back together after they break.”

The fragments glitter across her bedroom floor. “I don’t think even you can fix that.”

“In which case, it’s also my responsibility to know when to dispose of the mess,” Klein says as he collects the shards and deposits them in the trash.

“So that’s in then,” Weiss murmurs. “If something no longer serves its intended purpose, you throw it away,”

“For certain things, yes. Plates are replaceable. Some things are worth keeping, no matter the circumstances.” Klein smiles and taps the jar of jam. “Some things in this world are priceless.”

Weiss drops back onto the mattress, and her gaze falls back to her dresser. The light glinting off the scroll is so, so bright.

“How do you know what to fix, what to throw away, what to hold on to?”

“Mostly experience.”

“Mostly?”

“Sometimes it’s little more than a feeling.”

“Experience seems more reliable,” Weiss says, pulling her attention back to Klein. “Considering my feelings don’t seem to lead me anywhere good.”

Klein frowns.

“Although,” Weiss continues before he can respond, “I don’t possess that many experiences to depend on either.”

“Experience will come with due time,” Klein says, taking a few steps closer. “You’ve already come a long way from the little girl who used to roam these halls.”

“I don’t feel very different,” Weiss admits.

“Well, in the most important ways, you aren’t any different.” Weiss frowns, but Klein continues, his tone light, “You still have the same kindness and the same intelligence.”

He leans forward, twitches his mustache with exaggerated flair, and Weiss can’t stop the small laugh that escapes.

Klein beams. “And you still have the same, beautiful smile.”

Weiss blinks hard. “And I still have you.”

“I only wish I could help you in every way you need.”

“You’ve always done everything you could for me.” Her voice feels scratchy and dry, so Weiss reaches for the cup he left on the dresser. “There’s nothing more I could ask of you.”

“Yes, I suppose there’s nothing more I can do for you.” There’s a set to his brow when Klein tips his head, gesturing at the tea. “I know it’s not your usual, but I thought you could do with a bit of a change.”

“You always know what I need, even when I don’t.” Weiss smiles. “Thank you.”

She draws the tea close, cradles the cup between her hands and breathes in the subtle scent wafting with the steam.

It’s warm.

* * *

The sun disappears with the last sips of tea.

Weiss can’t remember ever spending a day so unproductively. A constant procession of tutors and lessons and appointments occupies even her earliest memories. Someone else in her place might resent it all, but Weiss doesn’t. Every second not wasted moved her closer to her goal and now it stands within reach: the power to fix the SDC, her grandfather’s legacy, her home.

A power her father offers for a small price — anything is a small price to pay for everything she ever wanted. And he knows it. Weiss hates that her father understands, but it doesn’t make the fact any less true.

Anything is a small price to pay, even Beacon, especially since Beacon can never be what Weiss needs. Beacon can’t fix Atlas or her family name or herself. Robyn Hill and Arthur Watts proved as much. Even now, Weiss knows it won't be a quick task. Her father would still remain in power for years, but she can make changes - bit by bit, piece by piece - to restore everything he touched.  
  
She can win. 

Everything Weiss ever needed in exchange for some unfounded fantasy of a haven. It’s barely even a sacrifice.

Not being a Huntress? It’s impossible to lose something never hers to begin with.

Years of training? Years out of a lifetime.

Her team? They would understand. ( _They would._ )

Her partnership?

An image wrenches into her mind of Ruby and those fragile, far-away gazes lost in search of someone long gone. Somehow, Weiss thinks it would hurt less to watch her cry. Tears inevitably end; longing can last forever. But Weiss never saw Ruby cry or her sorrow linger beyond a passing moment, so those images fade in short order. Weiss wishes they stayed. Because what her mind conjures in their place hurts more than anything else — Ruby, and her ever-present smile, after partnering with someone else.

Weiss reaches for her scroll on instinct, beset by a sudden, impossible desire to talk to Ruby, to explain, to ask for a plan, to hear her voice ramble on about nothing. The instant her hand touches the screen, she pulls back. It doesn’t cut, but the roughness of the glass burns cold against her palm. Weiss tries not to think about why.

She tries to ignore how empty the room is, how cold it is, how quiet.

And when she goes to sleep that night, Weiss tries to block out the dreams of spiraling loops and soft edges and curves dimpled with hope.

* * *

She fails, of course.

Walls all possess one fatal weakness: they can’t keep away the people already inside.

Not even in Atlas.

* * *

Weiss stirs awake when her bedroom door creaks open. Through the pitch black a figure creeps closer, as if trying not to make a sound. Something glints in the darkness.

With the dull fuzz of sleep like cotton in her mouth, Weiss lets out a muffled gasp and fumbles towards her bedside.

“Keep it down,” a familiar voice grumbles.

She squints into the darkness. “Klein?”

Illuminated by the low light of the scroll in his hand, Klein comes into view. With a smile, he extends the device towards her. It takes Weiss a moment to comprehend, and yet another to accept the scroll from his hands, but even her sleep-addled vision instantly recognizes the look of flat disapproval eyeing her through the screen.

“Weiss, what did you do this time?”

“Winter!”

Winter raises an eyebrow. The sight of her expression, as stalwart and refined and impatient as ever, clears all remaining grogginess.

“Nothing,” Weiss amends, sitting up.

“Then why did Klein contact me claiming that something significant transpired, and you were in distress?” Winter asks.

Weiss glances up to find Klein already absent from her room. He no doubt wanted to give them some privacy. Weiss turns back to Winter, alone at a desk in her sparse quarters, still in her crisp white uniform. And still waiting for an answer.

“You know Klein, he’s always exaggerating,” Weiss says with a smile. “He probably thought it was the best way to get your attention.” She hesitates. “I know from experience that it’s not easy.”

“I saw that you tried to contact me several weeks ago.” Winter tucks away a loose strand of hair. “I am sorry I wasn’t able to return your calls. Some matters here preoccupied my time, and I presumed you didn’t have an urgent problem when you left it at my personal line.”

“I understand,” Weiss insists. And it’s true, she does understand. She really, truly understands. “They weren’t important. I only wanted...” Weiss swallows. “It wasn’t important.”

Winter nods. “Let’s let bygones be bygones then. Now, tell me all about this ‘nothing’ you’ve gotten yourself into.”

A flush of shame almost leads Weiss to deflect, but Winter watches her with an expectant and knowing look, so Weiss explains what transpired since coming home. She leaves out the parts about her scroll and the summoning and the sulking. No need to waste Winter’s time with the unimportant details.

“You knew what to expect when you decided to attend Beacon,” Winter says once Weiss finishes. “I don’t see any differences with your current predicament.”

“That’s the problem,” Weiss says. “Nothing changed: including me.”

“You’ve always been so idealistic,” Winter chides. “You need to adjust your expectations. What did you think you were going to accomplish in a few years?”

“Sorry we can’t all be born wise and all-knowing,” Weiss says airily. “I’m not you.”

Winter frowns. “I wasn’t born with any wisdom. I had to learn as you are now.”

“That was a joke.”

The frown twitches. “In that case, I suggest adding comedy to the list of things you still need to master.”

Weiss rolls her eyes. As if Winter, of all people, can lecture her about good humour. “Please, tell me more about all the ways I still need to improve.”

“Let’s start with your appearance,” Winter says without pause, “You’re slouching and look completely disheveled. You need to be presentable at any moment.”

“…That was also a joke.”

Winter almost smiles. “It seems your time at Beacon turned you into quite the comedian.”

“At least there’s one thing that changed about me.”

“What hasn’t seemed to change is your melodrama and devotion to the family name. I thought that ceased when you left for Beacon after you proved yourself to him.”

“Proving myself to Father was only the first step to proving to everybody else what the family name stands for.” Weiss leans back against the headboard and takes care not to slouch. “And now, I’ve accomplished neither.”

“Why are you so insistent on the family name?” Winter asks.

“Because I know what our family name really means, what Grandfather sacrificed, and how much good the company can do for the world.” Despite herself, Weiss remembers his words: _I know because that’s what it means to be a Schnee_. “Doesn’t it bother you, letting Father degrade that legacy? Don’t you—”

_I know how much you love this family._

Weiss steadies her voice and focuses on Winter, _here_. “Don’t you want something to be proud of?”

“I never regarded the family name with the same esteem. That’s precisely why I left: because I don’t have any attachment to it, nor do I want any,” Winter says with an edge to her voice, and if Weiss didn’t know any better, she might mistake the disinterest for scorn. “What that man does now is none of my concern.”

“No,” Weiss agrees, “now Father’s actions are General Ironwood’s concern.”

Winter clears her throat. “We all have our roles to play and, unfortunately, the General’s includes dealing with Father. I left that responsibility behind along with everything else.”

Weiss pulls the sheets around her closer. Nights in Atlas are even colder than the days. “I didn’t know responsibility was something that could so easily be left behind.”

“I didn’t say it was _easy_ , but I made a choice. I followed through with it,” Winter straightens in her seat, and the lamplight burns the shadow of her silhouette across the empty room. “And I didn’t look back.”

Weiss nods, not quite looking at the unbridled dispassion on Winter’s face. “Are you saying I should do the same?”

“I’m not telling you what to do,” Winter says. “What I am saying is that you need to assess your existing circumstances, think through your decisions logically, and then commit.”

“I tried.”

“Tried? Are you going to give up because you failed once?”

A defensive rejoinder comes to mind but what slips out instead is, “I’m so tired.”

“It does appear you haven’t been sleeping well. I wasn’t planning to comment on it,” Winter says without malice. “But I presume you were referring to something else.”

“I’m tired of making the same choices over and over again.” The words continue to spill out, and Weiss is too tired to stop them. “I’m tired of always ending up at the same place no matter what I decide. I’m so tired of having to choose between—”

Between what? Freedom and responsibility. Listening and being heard. Her first name and her last.

Her family.

“—everything.”

“Is that why you’re letting Father decide for you?” Winter asks.

“I don’t know, okay!” Her voice reverberates in the empty room. Weiss inhales, feeling a prick of tears at the corner of her eyes, and then quieter, “I don’t know what to do.”

She pulls her knees up to her chest like the little girl who once sat in this same spot.

“I thought going to Beacon was the right decision. I thought coming home was the right decision. I thought I was stronger, that I wasn’t afraid anymore.” Weiss squeezes her eyes shut. She can’t bear to look at Winter, not when she sounds every bit as immature as Winter accused her of being. “I thought I was better than this, better than him.”

“Weiss.”

“I know, I know. _Adjust my expectations_.”

“Weiss, don’t mope.”

Winter’s voice carries a practiced authority she no doubt uses to marshal even the most unruly of soldiers, but it’s the undertone of care which captures Weiss’ attention. She lifts her eyes back to Winter’s exasperation, soft like a fresh snowfall.

“You’ve always been so idealistic,” Winter repeats. “Stubbornly so.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“Let me finish,” Winter says with a more pointed look. “You’ve always been obstinate in your ideals _and_ that drove you to pursue things which should be beyond your reach. Things such as defeating the Gigas to attend Beacon. It was an improbable victory, given your form and lack of experience, but you succeeded.”

Weiss bites down on her lip to let Winter finish speaking.

“It’s true, you haven’t reached your full potential, but don’t take that as an indictment. Failures only become permanent weaknesses when you fail to learn from them. Both your own failures,” Winter’s voice wavers for an almost imperceptible moment, “and the failures of others. Don’t wallow in immutable fixtures of the past. They’re gone. It’s the next step you take which proves your merit, not the last.”

“How am I supposed to know if I’m taking the right step?” Weiss asks.

Winter leans forward, steady and deliberate, but unmistakable care.

“You don’t,” she says. “So what are you going to do?”

-

“I was beginning to believe you would hole yourself up in your room for eternity.”

Weiss doesn’t look at her father as he passes her into the dining hall.

“I needed time to think, but I never intended to hide forever. It’s impossible.” She breathes. “You taught me that.”

Somewhere behind her, Whitley sputters into his drink.

“You’ve never been keen to listen to what I had to say,” her father replies from further back.

“I thought I knew what I was doing before. I was wrong.” All movement behind Weiss ceases, but her voice continues. “It took me leaving to understand and appreciate what I already had. All the privileges of growing in Atlas. All the opportunities that made me who I am.” She accepts her mug from Klein with an appreciative smile. “All the good people. I’m grateful for all of it.”

"And now you can have all of that and more." A razor-thin smile edges into her father’s voice. "Weiss, I know you know the right decision to make. You've always been sensible. Unlike your sister, who ran off to wage a war no one is fighting."

"I do know," Weiss says. She glances across the empty chairs, over Whitley’s inscrutable expression, where her grandfather watches: placid and distant and never-changing.

“I can’t turn my back on the people who are depending on me. I can’t mistake the same mistake twice.”

-

It’s snowing again. From safe inside, Weiss can appreciate the visage without worrying about the logistical nightmare of navigating through the weather.

When she was younger, she sometimes followed Winter out after a new snowfall and rather than trudge through the snow herself, she waited for Winter to take the first step, then methodically stepped in the imprints left by her sister’s boots.

“You look ridiculous,” Winter once complained as she watched Weiss bound forward with an extra bounce after a particularly long stride.

“I don’t want the snow getting all over my boots,” Weiss said, and Winter rolled her eyes — a gesture that secretly delighted Weiss because their father disapproved, so Winter only ever allowed herself the movement in moments between the two of them.

“That’s the purpose of shoes: they get dirty so you can remain clean.”

Weiss gestured at the glossy white of her boots. “This way they remain clean and useful.”

“You can’t have it both ways forever,” Winter tossed over her shoulder as she walked away. “One day you’re going to have to choose. Sacrifice one or the other.”

“Hmph,” Weiss harrumphed. “I can make a simple choice.”

And she did — to move across the world, to fight, to follow the stranger in the forest who offered her hand — nothing but a sequence of simple choices when her life splintered from possibility into the present. Strung together, the arrangement of those decisions resonates with a different meaning but each was a singular act of choosing.

Beacon or Atlas; fight or flee; leave or stay.

Pick up the pieces or throw them away.

That’s all it is, one more choice.

_“So what are you going to do?”_

A few beats pass after Winter’s question. Nothing moves in the manor or outside in the Atlas night. Weiss scrubs her face, brushing away the wetness in her eyes.

“I don’t remember this being difficult the first time,” she says. “I thought knowing more would make things easier.”

“In my time at the military, I’ve learned information often clarifies our weaknesses and the underlying stakes but rarely the final decision.”

“It must be nice, having someone like General Ironwood to make tough calls.”

“While he often has the final say, the General never coerces anyone into decisions not in their best interest,” Winter says, her voice rising. “We follow his lead out of respect not blind servitude.”

“I know, I wasn’t trying to imply otherwise,” Weiss says. She can feel something familiar tugging at the corner of her mind. “It reminds me of my team — not that Ruby could coerce anyone if she tried — but that I trust her to make the right decisions. We all do.”

“You seem to care a great deal for them,” Winter observes, the tight lines of her face loosening.

“They’re like…” Her voice falters, and Weiss rubs at her face again. “...family.”

“And that’s a compliment?” Weiss fumbles with the scroll at the remark, and Winter shakes her head. “Apologies, that was my attempt at humor.”

“Funny,” Weiss replies. “But yes, I meant that as a positive thing.”

“I’m glad you found them,” Winter says, and there’s something odd in her expression, whether contemplative or neutral, Weiss never learned to tell.

“So am I,” Weiss says, and her hand drops. “And if I had been the one to decide, it never would have happened.”

“Weiss.”

“I know, I know. Bygones.”

“Is that what you want them to be?” Winter asks. “Bygones?”

Another bygone, Winter doesn’t say but Weiss thinks it. She thinks of everything and everyone already lost and how, rationally, one more sacrifice shouldn’t make a difference. She thinks of the possibility that one more sacrifice could make all the difference.

"Sometimes I wonder what Grandfather would really think about this," Weiss finally says. "But I never knew him. Father said he knew me, how much I was willing to give. It’s one of the nicest things he’s ever said about me.” She smiles wryly. “And he was wrong.

“He thought I was selfless enough to give up everything. But I’m not. He misjudged. Maybe if I was the only one paying the price, I could learn to live with it. To live under his shadow for a few more years or decades, to deal with people who don't understand, to not be a Huntress.” Her throat feels hoarse and Weiss can’t tell if it’s because of how long she’s been talking or from the emotion welling up inside her. “But I can't give up them. I'm not strong enough to stay.”

Weiss breathes, trying to collect her voice.

“I want to return to Beacon.”

It sounds almost trivial when she says it out loud. 

“It sounds like you’ve made your decision,” Winter says.

Weiss nods, more to make sure she’s not dreaming than as affirmation. 

Over the screen, Winter looks entirely unsurprised. “You know what this means, right? Father won’t give you another opportunity.”

“I know,” Weiss replies. But she can’t help the small part of her that wonders if she could refuse a second time. “It’s okay though. I understand the consequences this time.”

“Then that’s what you should do.”

It can’t possibly be this simple. And then, of course, she realizes, it’s not that simple.

“I don’t have money or a scroll or a way to leave.”

“There’s one decision you don’t need to worry about,” Winter says with a more pointed expression. “I can arrange discreet military transport for you back to Beacon without father finding out.”

“Won’t General Ironwood object to using military transport for that?” Weiss asks.

“The General wants what’s best for the people of Atlas. I’m sure he’ll agree this is an appropriate use of military resources,” Winter replies. “In the meantime, you will need to behave in a manner that doesn’t raise suspicions.”

“You mean I need to act like everything is alright?”

“Precisely.”

“Don’t worry,” Weiss replies, “that much I know how to do.”

“Excellent. Now, what’s this about a scroll? What happened to yours?”

Weiss winces. “…There was an accident?”

Winter narrows her eyes. “Is that a question or a statement? I thought you said you were unharmed.”

“I am unharmed,” Weiss supplies helpfully.

“I can only assume there’s a reason you’re not being forthcoming.” Winter touches a hand against her temple. “I won’t pry. I can arrange for a new scroll for you at Beacon.”

“Thank you,” Weiss says with a small smile and an even smaller exhale of relief.

Winter rolls her eyes, the same way she had when she handed Weiss her first defeat and then crouched down when Weiss began to cry and said _there’s no need to cry as long as you can still fight_ but stayed by Weiss’ side with a hand on her shoulder until the tears subsided and helped her get back up again.

“You can thank me by making good use of it and your time at Beacon.”

“I won’t let you down,” Weiss says.

Winter smiles, faint but present. “I expect nothing less.”

* * *

The library is dark when Weiss enters with her suitcase and Myrtenaster at her side. Fractured moonlight spills in through the arched windows, across the aged bookcases and leather chairs. She closes the door behind her and then peers around the room. Although Winter arranged the transportation, Klein wanted to see her off before she left.

He hadn’t looked surprised when she told him about her plans, but there was a touch of sadness in his expression that Weiss tries not to think about.

“Klein?” she calls.

A familiar voice responds. “I knew you were up to something.”

It’s not Klein’s.

Weiss whirls with one hand on Myrtenaster’s hilt. It’s just Whitley, face half-cloaked in shadow, as he steps out from behind a bookcase.

“Here to rat me out to father?” Weiss asks, grinding her shallow breaths into passive disinterest.

“He’ll find out soon enough. About you. And Klein’s help,” Whitley says, matter-of-fact. “You were always his favorite.”

“Actually, it was Winter who arranged everything. Klein had nothing to do with this.”

“Of course. You were always her favorite, too. Just like you’re Father’s.”

The hand around Myrtenaster tightens. “Excuse me?”

“Everything you ever wanted from him, he gave you: training, Beacon, a chance at the Schnee legacy.” Whitley’s eyes pale as he steps forward into the light, and the flat expression on his face curls. “And you spat on it, like the immature child you are.”

“If it were up to Father, I would be sitting in my bedroom all day like a doll, waiting for him to puppet me around. I worked hard and trained hard and fought for what I have as I’m doing now.”

Whitley scoffs. “What does Beacon have that’s worth throwing everything away?”

“I have freedom at Beacon. Friends. Things that matter,” Weiss says, and she draws Myrtenaster to prove a point, letting a small burst of fire run up the blade. “There’s nothing here for me that’s worth it.”

“No, I suppose there isn’t,” Whitley says, his voice impossibly low. “Nothing here matters to you.”

Weiss freezes. “Whitley,” she starts. Her breath hitches. “There’s nothing here for you either.”

She really should know better than to talk by now. 

“Shut up! Don’t tell me what I don’t have, like you understand." His eyes glisten, and it’s not because of the flickering light. "You always had Winter and Klein, but that wasn’t enough for you! Father is the only one who was ever there for me.”

“He’s not there for you!” Myrtenaster lowers, tip to the ground, all traces of warmth extinguished. Her free hand twitches, but then curls back into her side in a fist. “Don’t you get it? He's just making all your choices for you. Nothing you do will ever be enough for him.”

“No, nothing _you_ do will ever be enough.” Whitley sneers, an ugly imitation twisted out of boyish features. “So go ahead and leave, just like you always do. I’ll be the one who stays, I’ll be the one who carries on the family name, and I’ll be the one who gets the one thing you never could — Father’s respect.”

“What happens when you never get it? Are you going to waste the rest of your life?”

“What other choice do I have?”

“You could leave like I am. Like Winter.”

“And where would I go? What would I do?”

Weiss opens her mouth, but she can offer nothing: no friends he can turn to, not the military, not Beacon, not…herself. Whitley barks a sound halfway between a laugh and cry.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

He shakes his head, turns away, and tries to retreat into something calm, but the wall of composure split open by longing can’t hide the sheen of his eyes — wide and desperate and young — those of a child.

“I’m not you. I’m not Winter,” Whitley says. “I never wanted to fight.”

He’s gone before the door even shuts, the moon’s ghostly glow igniting the darkness where he stood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry? 
> 
> I considered posting the first part up until "She can't" as a standalone, but that felt unduly cruel.
> 
> (I promise these chapters aren't going to keep getting longer.)


	7. Scherzo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scherzo: a brisk, often humorous composition, sometimes used as the second or third movement in a symphony; in Italian, literally, "a joke"

Flecks of yellow sunlight pockmark the grey walls of the empty room.

Her neck aches, as does her back. The discomfort doesn’t bother her as it might have once before.

Weiss already resigned herself to being unsatisfied.

In Atlas, after all, the military designs transportation for functionality above comfort. The aircraft flying her to Beacon is no exception.

Weiss adjusts for the umpteenth time on the metal seat. The hours since her departure alternated between bouts of bitter wakefulness and restless sleep and the murky middle of memories. Back during her first flight to Beacon years ago, Weiss couldn’t rest either but for a different reason: nothing excites more than anticipation.

Nothing inspires more dread, either.

The anticipation only builds as sloped mountain ranges emerge on the horizon, followed by bushy treeline and Beacon’s spiky silhouette. As they draw near, the outline sharpens into familiar windows, walls, and archways. Airships pull in and out of the docking zone. Students file out in waves, crowding together on the tarmac with delight palpable even from afar.

A crackle of static carries from the cockpit. “Miss Schnee, we’ll be landing shortly.”

Her stomach lurches as the aircraft descends. Pressure builds and and mutes all sound except the engine’s groan. The air equalizes with a painful pop, the ringing recedes, and everything settles with a final shudder. Doors closed, nothing penetrates through the metal hull. Weiss doesn’t move from her spot on the bench. An irrational part of her expects the doors to open, only to return her to the desolate cold of Atlas.

But then the lock hisses, the door slides open, and the earthy aroma of grass tumbles in on a breeze balmy with laughter. When she steps off the plane, her boots find a stable footing in pools of sunlight on the pavement. Nothing explodes. Everything is completely normal.

The pilot salutes as he deposits her suitcases nearby and steps back into the aircraft.

“Take care, Miss Schnee.”

And with no ceremony, the doors shut, the plane lifts off, and the white wings bow into the sky under a curtain of sunlight, gone before her next shaky breath.

Weiss curls a hand around her suitcase. It’s done. No going back now. She’s —

“Weiss?”

Through the throng of bodies, Weiss recognizes the strip of red cloth fluttering. A few years ago, it’s exactly who Weiss would have wanted to see upon landing. Now though… Weiss shakes herself, schooling her expression into something positive.

“Pyrrha, it’s good to see you.”

Sash swaying with each step, Pyrrha approaches with her hand raised in greeting and a kind as ever smile. “You as well!”

“How have you been?” Weiss asks.

“Oh, you know. Home is home,” Pyrrha says with a press of her lips. “How about you?”

Weiss stops dead at the question.

Fortunately, Jaune comes to her rescue.

“Pyrrha!”

They both turn as he jogs up with open relief on his face. It’s impossible to miss the way Pyrrha ducks her head and the way her smile grows. Impossible, that is, for anyone not named Jaune, who extends his hand for a handshake. Before Pyrrha can respond, Nora skips up to them and bats away Jaune’s outstretched hand as she bowls over Pyrrha in a hug. Jaune blanches.

“Hi Nora!” Pyrrha laughs and falls easily into the gesture, smiling at Ren as he approaches. “Hi, Ren.”

With one arm hooked around Pyrrha and the other around Ren, Nora snags Jaune by the end of his shirt and yanks him straight into Ren. He collides with an oomph and mutters something incompressible into Ren.

Pyrrha sniffs, and she reaches across Nora and Ren to pat Jaune on the shoulder fondly. “I’m so happy to see everyone again.”

Jaune lifts his head and grins. “It’s good to have you back.”

Weiss feels an unexpected wetness in her eyes and reaches with the back of her hand as Jaune pries himself off of Ren and turns. Their eyes meet. Weiss wipes the stray tear from her eye. The color drains from his face.

Jaune’s smile dissolves into panic. “Oh, no.”

Nora swivels and gasps. “What did you do to her?”

“Nothing! ... I think?”

“You have an uncanny ability to inspire strong feelings in others,” Pyrrha offers, looking a little flustered.

Jaune groans and drops his face back into Ren’s back. “Great. No semblance but I make people cry.”

“Maybe that _is_ your semblance. You’re a real natural!” Nora adds as she pats an apologetic Pyrrha with sympathy.

“Not. Helping.”

Ren leans back to pat Jaune solemnly on the arm.

“Sorry,” Weiss says, collecting herself. “It’s not you, Jaune. There was something in my eye.” When she wipes her eyes again, her hand thankfully comes away dry. “It’s nice to see you all again.”

It surprises her how much she means it.

“It’s good to see you,” Ren replies good-naturedly from between Nora and a somewhat less despondent Jaune. “Especially since we didn’t hear from you.”

“Yeah, it’s like you up and vanished.” Nora leans forward. “What’s up with that?”

The genuine concern in Nora’s voice throws Weiss enough that she doesn’t notice the approaching footsteps until Pyrrha waves at someone behind her.

“Hello, you two!”

Weiss barely turns before an arm goes around her with surprising enthusiasm and pulls her into a hug. It’s… nice. So jarringly nice that Weiss can’t remember to do anything but stand limp and be held.

“This usually works better if the other person hugs back,” Blake murmurs.

Weiss gingerly moves her arms. “I didn’t take you for the surprise hugging type,” she says, also remembering how to move her mouth.

“I didn’t take you for the randomly disappearing type. That’s my thing.”

“I’m sorry,” Weiss starts and then stumbles as it all comes rushing together: Atlas, her scroll, everything she planned to say. “My f—I—”

“I’m kidding,” Blake says with a quiet laugh. “We know. Not the details, but that your scroll broke.”

Weiss yanks back in surprise. It’s no exploding dust, but somehow equally disorienting. “What did you say?”

“We know you didn’t call because your scroll broke. Sorry, I probably should have started with that.”

“What. How.” Weiss takes a full step back to peer at Blake. “Why are _you_ apologizing?”

“I didn’t mean to make you think we were upset.” Blake frowns as her eyes roam over Weiss. “You look exhausted.”

“I’m—I don’t understand.”

Before Blake can speak, Yang’s voice interjects from a few feet away. “Told Ruby we found her.” She waves her scroll in one hand, the other stuffed in her pocket. In an oddly subdued voice she says, “What’s up, Weiss?”

Her mouth opens, then shuts. Weiss stares, not sure how she missed Yang’s presence. The dizziness grows.

“Ruby’s at the dorm since she thought you would go there first. Yang and I came here since I’m pretty good at spotting your family’s airships,” Blake explains, tucking a lock of hair behind one ear in mild embarrassment with the admission.

Weiss stiffens.

“We didn’t see one though,” Blake continues, frowning again. “Yang recognized you in the crowd.”

“You’re tiny but I recognized the hair,” Yang explains and thumbs at team JNPR, now disbanded but standing in a loose half circle nearby. “After I heard Nora yelling.”

“Sounds like you should thank me,” Nora says.

Pyrrha steps forward, frowning slightly. “Weiss, do you need to sit down? Now that Blake mentions it, you do appear rather tired.”

They’re all staring at her now with various levels of concern, unmistakable under Vale’s unforgiving sun.

Weiss, despite years of performing in front of crowds more rapt and more demanding, is wholly unprepared to respond. Performances are built atop artifice, costumed authenticity stripped bare of the trappings of reality. The performer embodies truth in its absence. A good performer doesn’t let the audience see the person underneath. Not enough to shatter the projection. Not enough to judge.

Not enough to care.

Weiss is a very good performer. At least, she was.

“I appreciate the concern, but I’m—”

A displacement of air cuts off her next words. That, and the body colliding with hers. Pure muscle memory throws her arms up before the force knocks Weiss backwards. It takes longer for her mind to react: downy tips of red hair in her face, warm palms pressed against her spine, fragrance of roses wrapped all around.

And finally, comprehension. “Did you use your semblance to get here?”

“Walking was too slow,” Ruby answers easily.

A laugh escapes Weiss: small, incredulous, and oddly breathless considering she’s not the one who raced across campus. “You impatient idiot.”

Ruby’s mouth curves against her temple. “Does that mean you missed me, too?”

“Do you really need me to answer that?”

Ruby laughs. Part of Weiss doesn’t want to move, convinced beyond reason any motion will dispel this dream from her sleep-deprived brain, but when she clutches Ruby tighter and pillows against the soft fabric of her sunlight-washed cloak, the arms around her squeeze back and Ruby’s laughter grows only brighter and clearer and closer. There’s a strange pressure in her chest, different from the Atlas ache but equally unshakable.

“I do owe you an explanation,” Weiss says after a few moments. “For not getting back to you.”

“It’s okay,” Ruby says without hesitation.

“No, it’s really not. You don’t understand.”

“You’re here now. You came back! Just like you always do.”

Ruby is close enough that Weiss can feel her breath, but all Weiss can hear is Whitley’s words in her voice.

_So go ahead and leave, just like you always do._

Weiss flinches.

“Hey,” Ruby says, leaning away. “What’s wrong? You look—”

Weiss strains a smile. “Tired? It was a long flight.”

Ruby shakes her head, smile dipping. “No, upset. Did I say something?”

“No, no, it’s not you.”

Ruby’s closeness mixes with the incoherent mess of guilt and confusion and memories too raw to leave scars. It’s all too much and all too real. Weiss steps back to think straight, and she can’t tell whether she’s more relieved or disappointed when Ruby lets her go.

Before she can say anything further, Jaune clears his throat from a few feet away. Weiss startles, and Ruby spins so rapidly Weiss expects to see rose petals fluttering to the ground.

“Hey, uh, we’re gonna go grab lunch.” He points towards the direction of the building where the rest of his team, bar Pyrrha, already started off. “… Did you guys want to come?”

Ruby perks up at the mention of food, but with a quick glance at Weiss, she shakes her head and waves him off. “We’re good.”

As Jaune and Pyrrha head off, Ruby angles back towards Weiss. Instead of picking up where their conversation left off, Ruby asks, “I bet you want to unpack first, right?”

“You know me,” Weiss says weakly. “I know how much you love food.”

“A little bit,” Ruby admits, and after Weiss raises an eyebrow, she flushes. “Okay, a lot a bit.”

Weiss manages a small smile. “You’re probably hungry.”

“I can wait. Or you can come and unpack later.”

“Don’t let me keep you from what you want.”

“But I want—” Ruby cuts herself with a cough, tugging at her collar, and in a quieter voice finishes, “What do you want?”

Her first instinct is to stay, but the more rational voice, roiling and disorganized, needs space to think. To reassess. To find stable footing.

“I need to unpack,” Weiss says, “but you should go and eat.”

Ruby’s tight expression gives way to hesitancy. “Meet me when you’re done?”

“Of course. I—” Weiss swallows down the impulse to promise. “I’ll be there soon.”

“Okay,” Ruby says, and she smiles with more understanding than Weiss deserves.

Ruby spins to face Blake and Yang, caught up in their own hushed conversation but clearly paying attention, and declares, “To the cafeteria! Weiss is gonna meet us after she’s done unpacking.”

Nobody moves.

“Come on!” Ruby says, shooting forward between Blake and Yang to grab them by the arms. “I don’t want to miss the good stuff.”

“All food to you is the good stuff,” Yang jokes stiffly. “You have no taste.”

Blake glances at Weiss, then Ruby, and seems to come to some kind of decision.

“I think Ruby has pretty good judgement, especially with certain things,” Blake says as she reaches around Ruby with a smile. Her fingers curl around Yang’s bicep to draw her attention. A look passes between them. “You might even call her tastes, refined.”

Yang relaxes into a grin. “You would know about good taste, wouldn’t you?”

Wedged between them, Ruby makes a strangled sound. “ _Yang_.”

“What? Blake has great taste in books.”

“Heh, right. Books,” Ruby says, a little red in the face.

Weiss feels a twinge of sympathy for her, being stuck between Blake and Yang being… Blake and Yang. Something else tugs at Weiss, something strange, gnawing at her even as Ruby shimmies out from between them and sends her a playful two-fingered salute.

Since when did Yang know anything about books?

Nothing makes any sense.

* * *

Weiss places another folded shirt in the drawer. There’s a rhythm to it: everything in its place, exactly where it belongs. Her thoughts refuse to organize.

With little else to occupy her time in the past few days, Weiss spent most of her waking hours (most of her hours) preparing what to say. There’s the easy explanation of blaming others, and then there’s the truth. All of it — the decision to return home, ceasing contact, playing and losing his game — was her own fault.

She knows her friends are far too forgiving and far too nice. But it doesn’t stop the doubts. What if she horribly misjudged them? Or they misjudged her? What if she misjudged everything?

It feels altogether like thrown off a cliff, except this time the ground keeps moving further and further away.

The door creaks open behind her.

“Ruby, I told you I’d be there soon once I finished unpacking.”

“Not Ruby.”

Weiss turns at the unexpected voice.

Yang leans against the open doorway sporting a tight smile with her arms folded casually. At least, Weiss thinks it’s intended to be casual. The careful nonchalance, far from Yang’s usual careless ease, immediately sets off all warnings.

“Did something happen?” Weiss asks.

“Nope.”

“Are you certain?”

“Yep.” Yang relaxes with obvious effort. “Everything’s good, okay? Just checking in.” Her fingers tick along her bicep. “Need help?”

Weiss glances at Yang’s unopened bags stashed in the corner. “You haven’t even unpacked yet.”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t help you with yours.”

“Shouldn’t you handle your own first?” Weiss snaps without meaning to. Before Yang can react, she gestures at her open suitcase near the bookcase. “Sorry. If you want to help, can you get my books?”

Yang pushes away from the door with a lazy salute. “Gotcha.”

“Thanks.”

Weiss returns to putting away her clothes and pretends not to notice Yang shooting looks from across the room all the while. Spare uniform. Glance from Yang. Specially tailored combat attire. Particularly unsubtle look from Yang. The last item, a jacket embroidered with the Schnee emblem, gets smothered underneath the rest of her clothes. Yang looks over yet again.

Weiss shuts the drawer with more force than necessary and spins to face her. “What is it?”

“What is what?”

“What are you doing?”

“The same thing you are,” Yang replies, setting a book on the table.

“I’m not acting strange,” Weiss says, trying to keep from sounding accusatory.

Yang bristles. “Yeah, you kinda are on top of disappearing for a month.” It’s Blake’s words from earlier with an echo of the humour and none of the intentionality. Yang’s eyes close with a wince. “Shit, that came out wrong. Forget I said that.”

“You—You don’t actually expect me to let that go, do you?”

Yang cracks open her eyes. “Nope, but figured it was worth a shot.”

All of Weiss’ surprise curdles into dread. Yang doesn’t seem to notice as she stoops down, not meeting her eyes, and removes another book from Weiss’ suitcase.

“Sorry. If I was being weird.” The book hits the desk with a thud. “I know you need your space. I just needed to make sure.”

“What exactly…?”

Yang seems to understand what Weiss wants to ask, despite her inability to articulate herself.

“We were worried when you dropped off. But we know you’ve got other stuff going on in Atlas. I mean. That’s what you told Ruby, right? That you were dealing with something?” There’s another thud. “Ruby was bummed out, but she trusted you had a good reason for not calling. And Blake figured if something major happened, it would get through somewhere since you’re _you_. There was no real reason to think anything was seriously wrong,” Yang adds like a recitation.

“But you did?” Weiss asks.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I… I didn’t know. It’s not like I could get on Bumblebee to find you or pick up and fly to Atlas. I trust you, but stuff happens. People sometimes-” When Yang reaches down again, the suitcase is empty — it didn’t contain much to begin with; Weiss couldn’t take everything, only what she needed — and Yang wrings her hands around the deserted space. "Anyway, you're here. I'm just. I'm being weird about it."

There’s the cerebral chill of guilt and then there’s shame, smoldering down to the bone. Weiss is no stranger to either, not with her history, but in her past neither ever lasted long before being subsumed into resolve. The only remedy right now is the truth, all knotted up in her throat, and she can’t tell if it would help or make everything worse.

After an unbearable moment of deliberation, Weiss decides against explaining for now. It makes more sense to confess all at once. Or so she reasons against the whisper of a coward deferring responsibility.

_Like always._

“I’m sorry if I worried you. I was going to explain everything later with Ruby and Blake,” Weiss says without conviction.

“Yeah. Yeah, sounds good,” Yang replies, equally stilted. Her hands flex like she doesn’t know what to do with them, then she picks up one book and slides it into the bookcase. “Sorry,” she says again, and Weiss thinks it would feel better for both of them if Yang punched her. “I know it’s not your fault. Ruby had the right idea.”

Weiss doesn't move. “Ruby’s not always right about people.”

“She’s been right about you,” Yang says with some of her usual assurance. “Ruby would’ve been crushed if anything happened to you.”

“... I’m sure she would have managed. She’s incredibly resilient.”

Yang stills partway through shelving a book. “She is pretty tough. My baby sis is all grown up.”

Weiss laughs a little and enough tension ebbs to spur her to organize the rest of her belongings. “Grown up?”

“You don’t think so?”

“She definitely matured.” Weiss picks up a fountain pen, practical and elegant, a gift from Winter before her birthday came to mean something else. “But not entirely.”

“Enough to stand in her own shoes. Can’t believe she’s the same kid who used to stick to me everywhere.”

Weiss secures the pen back in its case and moves onto the rest of her things. “She had to learn how to make her own choices, eventually. Being a leader probably helped. Responsibility forces people to grow up.”

“Responsibility can also freak people out. Make them back down,” Yang says distantly. “When Ozpin made Ruby team leader, she definitely didn’t think she could do it. She needed someone else to believe in her first.”

Weiss picks up a checkered blue-white handkerchief, and she smiles. “Someone like you.”

“Actually, I was talking more about you.”

Weiss drops the handkerchief. “Come again?”

Behind her, Yang laughs and slides another book onto the shelf. “Yeah, I followed her, but you were the one always pushing her to be a better leader.”

“Not out of blind faith.”

“But you wouldn’t have pushed her if you didn’t think she could take it. You knew how to get to her true potential.”

“I suppose,” Weiss says, secretly doubtful she would let up on a partner she found any less remarkable. “That’s all beside the point. Anything I’ve done pales compared to you. Especially since…” Despite her best attempts to rid herself of the details, the guilt lingers. “I was horrible to her when we first met.”

“Not gonna argue with you there, but since then you’ve really been there for her.”

“Not always,” Weiss mutters under her breath. More audibly, she says, “So have you.”

“Yeah.” Yang’s voice drops so low Weiss almost misses her next words. “For now.”

Weiss does hear though and spins to face her. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Yang startles. “Eh, you know.”

Weiss does not, in fact, know. “No, I don’t. In what universe would you not be there for Ruby?”

“Unless you know something I don’t know about the number of universes, this one?”

“That’s not funny.”

“You have no appreciation for my amazing jokes. We’ve gotta work on your—”

“Stop trying to change the subject,” Weiss snaps. “Why on Remnant would you think that? You’re not thinking of doing something stupid like leaving Beacon, right?”

“No, geez. Chill. Why would you think that?” Yang laughs, once. “It’s after all this. Ruby’s going to go off being a hero. And me? Who knows. You’re the one always saying that teams don’t stay together after graduation, right?”

The final book slides into place on the shelf. It’s a stark contrast to Yang herself, who normally fits seamlessly into any room, who at the moment looks displaced. Her hands fall limp.

“I only said that because I...” needed to rationalize the decision. Weiss can think of nothing less reassuring. “It doesn’t matter now. And since when do you listen to me?"

"Uh, when you're right," Yang says.

"Well, I wasn't," Weiss replies. "Ruby would be more than happy to have you as long as you wanted.”

“C'mon I can’t follow her around forever. She’d get sick of it at some point. Maybe I would, too. Look, it's not about sticking together forever. But.” Yang sinks down into Blake’s bed. “If I’m not there fighting next to her, then how can I really be there for her?”

Weiss wishes Ruby or Blake were here because they would be better suited to this, know the right things to say or do. It's all too familiar. Everything wrong thing she ever said — to Ruby, Blake, Klein, Whitley — floods back to her. Instinctively, she reaches for a scroll that no longer exists.

And then Weiss remembers: every wrong thing said, _and_ everything else she never did.

Everything and the truth.

“You’ve already been there for her in ways that aren’t about fighting,” Weiss says, moving closer to Yang.

“Yeah, when we were kids and Ruby didn’t know how to take care of herself. But now? All complicated stuff like? Like growing up or being team leader or all the feelings she’s bottled up about…” Yang freezes with an odd expression before she shakes her head and pulls at a loose thread in the sheets. “… our mom.”

Weiss pauses. “There are going to be certain things you can’t help her with. It’s inevitable.”

“I know there's a ton I can't do. That’s the point,” Yang says. “I can't take care of her in the same way. I can’t fight her battles for her. I can’t stop people from leaving." She lets the thread drop, resting her elbows on her knees. "I’m her big sister, and I want to be there for her, but I don't know how.”

Yang hunches forward, not crying or angry, but with a weariness that Weiss recognizes. The latticed darkness and silk sheets and frozen dignity of her bedroom flicker at the edge of her mind. But when Weiss sits down on the bed next to Yang, the mattress creaks and it’s cheap cotton beneath her fingers and the room isn’t cold. It can’t be, not with Yang, untempered with her care.

“Does Ruby know how you feel?”

“Nah, it’s not like she can do anything about it.”

“How would you know if you haven’t even talked to her about it?”

“I’m not gonna pile on more problems,” Yang insists.

“You said it earlier: Ruby’s strong,” Weiss says, smiling a little. “I think you need to believe in her.”

There’s a dry chuckle from Yang. “Yeah, you’re right about Ruby. It’s me. I can deal with pain, but.”

“It’s terrifying to admit you won’t always be able to protect her.” When Yang doesn’t argue, Weiss continues, “And even harder to admit that she doesn’t need you to.”

“Yep, it sucks,” Yang says to the floor, blond hair falling into her eyes.

Weiss touches Yang’s shoulder with a light squeeze. “It’s not your responsibility to shoulder alone.”

It takes a moment, and then Yang’s laughs, suspiciously wet. “We really gotta work on your jokes.”

“Good thing I have you to help me,” Weiss says, with more confidence. “Yang, even if Ruby doesn’t need you, she’s all the better because of you. Not because of the fighting or even because you’ve always been beside her.” She breathes, steady with the certainty. “But because she knows you care.”

Yang nudges her hand with a shrug and Weiss can see the corner of her smile. “Since when were you the expert?”

“Experience.”

“With other people’s feelings?”

“Not that.” Weiss drops her hand back into her own lap. “I understand what it means to never be there for someone. Especially when it comes to siblings. You don’t even come close.”

Yang looks up, smile sliding into concern. “You having trouble with Winter?” She sits up. “Huh, that explains a lot.”

“No, not Winter. I was talking about me. And my brother.”

Yang stares and then, “Ah, the one you said was kinda a little shit.”

Weiss almost chokes on her laugh. “I did not say that.” In so many words. “But yes, Whitley, who probably hates me and definitely thinks I hate him.”

Yang frowns. “Did you say something to make him think that?”

“That’s not how it works in my family. We don’t talk; we act. If we’re talking, it’s because something is wrong.”

“So what did you do?”

“Nothing.”

Yang’s concern crosses into confusion. “Talking might not be your thing, but I’m gonna need more than that.”

Weiss scrubs at her face. “No, that’s it. I’ve ignored him his entire life.”

“Wasn’t he always getting on your nerves?”

“Constantly. We either annoy or avoid each other.” It’s an excuse and at another time, Weiss might have latched onto it. “But I think that was him reaching out. I should have tried harder.”

“Sounds like he could’ve tried harder, too,” Yang says. “To be more upfront.”

“Actually, Whitley’s always been terrible at hiding what he feels. I’m the one who didn’t pay enough attention to notice.”

Yang scoots over, close enough that their shoulders touch. “I said earlier that I don’t know how to help Ruby with our mom, but some of that is ‘cause Ruby won’t open up about it. It’s tough to help someone if they don’t let you.” Yang elbows Weiss with a pull of her lips. “If they pretend everything’s okay.”

“I understand what you’re saying, but it’s not the same. We aren’t like that. Nothing is ever easy with us.” Weiss kneads a head against her forehead. “It’s not an excuse.”

Yang nods, contemplative, and for one strange moment, it seems like she might do what Weiss never could: defend him.

“Why d’you think you didn’t notice?” she asks instead. “I mean, you’re good at figuring out when stuff is going on with all of us.”

“You all aren’t as annoying,” Weiss says. “Most of the time,” she adds after a moment.

Yang laughs but says nothing and lets Weiss continue.

“Obviously, I never spent enough time with him to understand. We have completely different interests. He’s exactly like—” _boyish features twisted into a sneer_ “—He reminds me so much of my father.”

“And your dad is...”

“Difficult.”

“Sounds complicated,” Yang says after Weiss doesn’t continue.

“It’s really not,” Weiss replies. “I let something that wasn’t even his fault cloud my judgment. I should be better than this.”

“Well, hey, there’s always next time.” Weiss freezes at the realization that there may never be a next time. Yang continues, “And if he’s still an asshole after that, then it’s his loss.”

“I’m not sure if he would consider it much of a loss,” Weiss says into her lap.

“Then he’s a fucking dumbass.” When Yang drags her sideways into a hug, Weiss doesn’t resist. “It took me a while to come around, but I’m glad I did."

"I am, too," Weiss says, one of the few clear things she's felt all day.

"You know," Yang says into her hair. "I was this close to driving Bumblebee all the way to Atlas to find you.”

“That’s impossible,” Weiss informs her in a scratchy voice.

“Aren’t you always calling me ‘impossible?’”

“Insufferable is more like it.”

When Yang laughs, it carries through her and Weiss leans into the soft muscle of her shoulder, letting the full-bodied sound wash over her. She takes in the room: suitcase empty, belongings put away, books… Weiss laughs.

“What?” Yang asks.

“My books,” Weiss says, gesturing at the shelf. “You arranged them by color. They’re supposed to go in order of volume.”

“No, I didn’t. I'm not that du—ah, crap you’re right.”

“Of course I am.”

“Laugh it up,” Yang mutters, already standing up. “I can redo it.”

“No wait,” Weiss says, admiring the red spines against blue. “They look better this way.”

Yang stops and then turns back around with a predatory smile. Weiss can sense the incoming headache before Yang opens her mouth.

“Would you say that means—”

“Please don’t.”

“—I’m off the _book?_ ”

“Yang, I am begging you.”

“You can only blame your _shelf_.”

“No, I am definitely blaming you.”

“I learned from the best _prose_.”

“The worst. The absolute worst.”

Yang presses a hand to her chest. “That hurts Weiss. Guess I’m gonna go all out in a blaze of _story._ ”

The window, Weiss decides. The window is closer than the door, but before Weiss can leap out of it to end her misery, the door opens, and Ruby’s nervous face pokes in. Blake, behind her, looks as calm as ever, but there’s a question in her eyes as she glances between Weiss and Yang.

“Ruby!” Weiss says, almost yells, so consumed with gratitude for one fleeting moment that she could march over and kiss Ruby.

“Uh, I know you said you were going to meet us, but I couldn’t wait,” Ruby says, crouched behind the door and a little pink in the face. “Is now okay?”

“Oh, yes. Now’s fine,” Weiss replies, calming herself with a glance at Yang. “I finished unpacking.”

Yang, however, isn’t looking at her, staring at Ruby instead. As Ruby and Blake step into the room, Yang strides over and hauls her sister straight off the ground into a hug. Ruby squawks, and her eyes go wide over Yang’s shoulder.

“You know I love you, right?” Yang asks, muffled into Ruby's hair.

“I know?”

“Good.”

The bed dips beside Weiss as Blake sits down.

“I tried to tell her not to worry,” Blake says in a low, affectionate voice. “But you know Yang.”

“A real worrywart,” Weiss agrees, smiling as she watches Ruby flail and then flop comfortably in Yang’s grasp.

“Seems like a theme with older sisters.”

“What makes you say that?” Weiss eyes Blake. “Don’t tell me you’re hiding some secret siblings along with your parents.”

“What?” Blake shakes her head with a laugh. “Oh, I never answered your question earlier about your scroll.”

“How does that relate to any of this?”

“We knew your scroll broke because of Winter.”

It takes a long second for Weiss to process the word. “Winter?”

“Your not-secret sister,” Blake replies dryly.

“My sister contacted you?” Weiss repeats, ignoring Blake’s amusement.

“Not exactly. Do you remember Yang and Ruby’s uncle? She passed along a message through him.”

A few feet away, Ruby says something that makes Yang laugh, and Yang’s grip slackens as she sets Ruby back down. Their uncle visited once in their first year, but spent little time in her presence. Weiss remembers nothing of him other than how happy Ruby seemed in the days after.

“I wasn’t aware they were acquainted,” Weiss says.

“Probably for a good reason,” Blake says. “I don’t get the impression that he wanted to do her any favors or that your sister wanted to ask him for one.”

“I don’t know why she wouldn’t like him. Qrow is awesome,” Yang interjects as she and Ruby approach. Instead of sitting next to Blake, Yang drops in the vacant spot next to Weiss and winks at Ruby. “Gotta move faster.”

Ruby mumbles something under her breath and sticks her tongue out at Yang.

“Your sister seems... nice,” Ruby offers as she drags over a chair to sit down in front of Weiss.

“That’s very unlike her,” Weiss replies, still trying to piece together some understanding.

“Nice enough to go through the trouble of letting us know you would be back at Beacon,” Blake says. “After she apologized on your behalf."

Weiss smiles. “That sounds more like her.”

“She said you were fine but couldn’t contact us because your scroll broke. No details,” Ruby says. “Like what you were doing or what actually happened.”

Weiss can hear the question at the end of her sentence before she even asks. The days of preparation don't quell her nerves. Weiss clasps her hands in her lap and stares at a dark spot in the carpet, the remnants of some accident or another, as if it might guide her towards an answer.

Finally, she decides to begin with the truth. “I broke my scroll when I threw it in a fit of anger because of my father.”

“What?” Blake says, pivoting at the same time Yang lets out a heartfelt, “Fuck.”

Ruby goes unnaturally still. “Did your dad... did he…?”

“He didn’t hurt me.” Weiss reaches over to touch Ruby’s hand, curled into a fist in her lap. “He’s also not the reason I stopped contacting you. That started weeks before I broke my scroll, and it was entirely… my decision.”

Weiss pulls back her hand, but Ruby catches her wrist, not tight enough to stop Weiss from moving if she wanted to, just there, thumb resting against her fluttering pulse.

“Why?” Ruby asks quietly.

“My father… it wasn’t even a threat, not really. He made it clear he thought I was putting Beacon over my family responsibilities. It sounds stupid now, but I thought not talking to you would prove myself. To him. Then he all but guaranteed me a position of power in the company if I left Beacon and went back home. This was after I broke my scroll,” Weiss clarifies, like the exact timeline of her idiocy matters because it’s all she can do to keep her mouth moving.

“I considered his offer to leave. And I might have gone through with it if Winter hadn’t talked to me. But I couldn’t do it, and instead of turning him down to his face, I ran away. And now I’m here and I—”

Ruby’s fingers are perfectly still around her wrist. Without looking, Weiss can sense Blake staring at her like she knows. She doesn’t look at Yang.

“I’m sorry.”

The stain in the carpet grows as Weiss stares, the black smudge encroaching into the entirety of her vision. Her hand in Ruby’s remains limp while the other clenches around the sheets. And then fingers gently run across the back of her whitened knuckles. Weiss glances up. 

Blake lifts an eyebrow, halfway between concern and amusement. “Why are _you_ apologizing?”

“What do you mean, ‘why am I apologizing?’” Weiss asks, her voice rising. “I ignored you all for weeks.”

Ruby’s fingers around her wrist squeeze gently. “Because of your family.”

“And it worried us, but that’s not your fault,” Blake says, amusement moving into full concern.

“Yes, it is! You’re missing the point.” Weiss unfurls her fist from the sheets to gesture. “I’m the one who stopped contacting you of my own free will and made you all needlessly worry. I’m the one who almost left with no consultation or warning.” She shakes her other hand loose from Ruby’s and presses her palms into her eyelids. “I’m the one who failed because I still can’t stand up to my father. And you should all—”

“Hate you,” Yang finishes.

Weiss nods slowly into her hands, bright patterns swirling against her closed eyes. The air is silent, stiff, static. Sweet scent of roses lingers, barely there. Then movement: Ruby standing up, the rumble of a chair sliding back against the carpet, the smell grows… closer.

“Weiss,” Yang starts seriously.

Calloused hands settle on her arms and carefully pry away her hands. Weiss reluctantly opens her eyes. On the ground in front of her, Ruby is kneeling, swathed in folds red, and looking up with a twinkle of silver eyes, hands that heft steel light and tender and steady on her knees.

And then an arm slides over Weiss’ shoulders, solid and warm. “That might be the funniest thing you’ve ever said. You think we’re mad?”

Blake shifts closer. “We’ve always known things are difficult with your family and how important your family name is to you. You don’t need to apologize for trying to do right by them. Give us a little more credit.”

It takes Weiss a few moments to take it all in, and a little hysteric, manages a strangled laugh (or sob, or maybe both) and sags forward with the sheer relief of it all under Yang’s arm.

“We don’t hate you.” Ruby offers the corner of her cape, but Weiss shakes her head minutely. “Promise.”

“It sounds like you might though,” Blake says delicately.

Weiss sits up a little. “That’s ridiculous. Why would I hate you all?”

“Not us. You.”

Ruby’s hands tighten, but Weiss shakes her head. “No, it’s not that. For better or for worse, I wasn’t raised for self-hatred or _pity._ I have too much pride for that. It’s recrimination. Acknowledgement of my own faults is the only way I can fix them.”

"It still sounds like—” Blake stops at some movement from Yang. Weiss can't see either of their faces, but she can sense some sort of nonverbal communication between them.

“Look,” Yang picks up. “Maybe it was kinda shitty for you not to call. Apology accepted. The rest of it, though?” The humour in her voice sobers. “We were worried, not mad.”

The solid presence around Weiss’ shoulder grows firmer as Blake grasps Yang’s dangling fingers. “And it would’ve fucking sucked to lose you if that’s what you ended up doing. But we know you, how much you care, and we would’ve accepted it in the end.”

After a moment, Yang adds in a quiet voice, “And your brother, well, I don’t know him, but he might feel the same if you reach out to and tell him.”

Weiss shakes her head, blinking back the last of her tears. “I don’t know if he would want to listen.” She looks down at Ruby, head tilted in confusion and hair mussed in her eyes. The mess makes Weiss want to run her hands through to straighten it. She takes another shaky breath and reaches for Ruby’s hands instead and Ruby slides their palms together.

“Schnees are very petty. We’re not good at letting things go.”

“What about you?” Blake asks, touching her by the elbow. “How do you feel about leaving Atlas?”

Somehow both better and worse than she expected. A nameless, formless answer works its way through Weiss, too close and too far, everywhere and nowhere all at once.

“Honestly, I don’t know what I’m feeling.”

“We can figure it out,” Ruby says, smiling up at her.

“I suppose.” Weiss laughs, less of a sob this time. “Actually, that reminds me of something Klein told me right before I left.”

“Klein? He was your butler, right?”

“Right, my… butler.”

In the seconds after Whitley leaves the library, Weiss almost follows so she can explain, apologize, do _something._ Before she can move, there’s movement behind her, and Weiss spins, raising Myrtenaster in one fluid motion.

“Miss Schnee?” Klein asks, stepping out from behind a bookcase. “Is everything alright? I thought I heard shouting.”

“It was just—” Weiss lowers her rapier. “—it was Whitley.”

Klein frowns. “Is there going to be trouble?”

“I think there always has been, but I failed to notice.”

_Like you always do._

“Trouble I can assist with?” Klein asks.

_You always had Winter and Klein._

“No, this isn’t something you can fix for me.” Weiss slides Myrtenaster’s deadweight back into its holster. “Can I make a request, though?”

“By all means.”

“Can you look out for Whitley? Like you did for me.”

Klein blinks in surprise and then tips his head forward. “It’s my pleasure.”

“Thank you.” Weiss steps forward and wraps her arms around him in a hug.

"You're ever so welcome." He pats her on the back. 

She sniffs into his shoulder. “Klein, what am I going to do without you?”

The hand on her back stills. “You asked me the other evening about being a butler, and it occurs to me that I never told you the hardest part of the job. It’s not food or midnight requests or the occasional mess.”

“What is it?” Weiss asks.

“The hardest part is knowing when there’s nothing more I can do.” Klein steps back and holds Weiss at arm’s length. “But it can also be the most rewarding because the surest sign I’ve done my job well is seeing that I’m no longer needed.”

Weiss wipes a hand across her eyes. “Clearly that’s not the case here.”

Klein extends a handkerchief, patterned blue and white, and smiles. “I wouldn’t be so sure.”

“It’s the _only_ thing I’m certain about,” Weiss says, dabbing at her eyes. “I don’t know what I’m doing or what’s going to happen after this.”

“That’s as good a place as any to be.”

“It doesn’t feel particularly good.”

“No, I imagine it doesn't. Certainty brings comfort. But it can only guide you to destinations already reached.” Klein chuckles, and in the rise of moonlight, his eyes glow a warm yellow.

“Uncertainty is the capacity to begin at the boundaries, to grow beyond the truth of history, to become more.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was...difficult to write. My first draft took weeks and then I completely scrapped it at least four or five times. Turns out communication is hard.  
> Also turns out that not only am I a poor judge of how fast I write (very slowly), but I am also terrible at gauging word counts. So, like Weiss, I endeavor not to make any promises moving forward.


End file.
